Sleeper, Awake!
by overlord-of-the-bees
Summary: The year is 1425 when Castiel is imprisoned by the Empress Lilith, for the crime of animalism, and his love for the human and Slayer of Ardus: Dean Winchester. When the door to the tomb is opened, Dean is returned to him. Only Dean no longer knows Castiel, and the year is 2013.
1. Prologue

**The Account of Castiel, he who was once an Angel of the Lord**

The first Angel, Lucifer Morningstar, fell for the sin of refusal. He was not only significant in that he was the first, but in that he was the impetus for the grander event. It was he who betrayed his brothers and sisters, and brought to them temptation and ruin.

The remaining Angels fell when Jesus Christ, the son of God, rose and redeemed human sin.

When the Angels witnessed the passion of the Christ, they were distressed by his torturous suffering. In their confusion and anguish, some were drawn to Lucifer's gospel and they began to question their Father's love for his humans – that his son should be forced to endure so much on their behalf, when they made his death a folly with a crown of thorns. Through that gospel, their minds were muddied, and they spread the disease to their kin.

The dismissal of their Father's most perfect creation angered him, and so all the Angels were cast out from Heaven with such force of frustration that they were hurled upon the Earth as falling, flaming stars. Not content with that punishment alone, their Father closed the Gates of Heaven, and his first children became one and the same with humans, as earthbound creatures.

Upon their being thrown from the heavenly realm, the Angels' true forms (being those forms that defy metaphysical dimensions) were contained within those of the creatures which they had refused to admire. As such, the Angels appeared human, but were distinguished from them visibly by the presence of enormous wings, and invisibly, by the presence of Grace – a taint of the divinity from their former home.

In their angelic form, and then those human forms, the Grace was the source of the Angels' supernatural abilities, such as teleportation, telepathy and healing. But unbeknownst to them, cut off from their Father, the Grace was finite and it depleted rapidly.

When the Angels fell, their Father did forsake them. At the loss of the comfort of his hand on their shoulders, and his word in their minds, they were all subject to absolute terror and a fitful madness. There were many at a loss. They loved their Father throughout their entire being – body and soul. Many had loved his humans – they had cared for them and watched over them, so why had he dismissed them?

And so, they split into factions, each to pursue a goal that would lead to their demise.

Some joined Lucifer's ranks. They blamed the humans for their fall – for being so fundamentally unlovable in their hateful, vile cruelty. Those Angels consumed their Grace by laying siege to human towns upon Lucifer's orders and in destroying those who had caused them suffering. Their anger was boundless and thousands were annihilated. But use of Grace in anger, and in wanton destruction, lead to its quick depletion. Soon, their Grace was extinguished.

Others blamed Lucifer, and those wayward Angels that had not been true disciples of their Father's word. They avenged their Father's sadness by tearing them limb from limb. Their brutality and viciousness extinguished the light of Grace inside them, and they too were left without it.

Others tried harder to love the humans in their Father's name. They sought to earn their Father's love once again by tending to human needs. They healed those who were ill or injured, they helped their crops to grow so that none would go hungry, and they brought beauty, music and art to the people. In their kindness, their Grace lasted the longest. But eventually, it too was extinguished.

When the Grace was extinguished the Angels awoke inflicted with pure humanity, albeit with a modified anatomy. Never before had they witnessed the world through a truly humans lens, and they despised it. The world was too bright and too loud. They were too cold, or too hot. And hungry and thirsty _all the time_. Many had never lived among the humans, and knew not how to sate such urges. Even those who had were lost, overwhelmed by the intense physicality of their form.

Worse than that, their existence _hurt_. All at once, they felt the full pain of the human condition. The physical pain, the mental pain and the existential pain.

Never before had they been subject to such unbridled emotion, and they could not contain it. A new seed of madness planted itself in their minds made fertile by the weakness of madness, and grew there, using rationality, compassion and love as its life force. Slowly, it strangled them from the inside until they were driven only by a desire to avenge their circumstance and their desperation to return to their Father's glory.

And so, slowly at first, but then faster, they became animal. They lost the power of speech and remembered only their hatred for humans and the desire to see them destroyed. Their bodies changed too, and they became unrecognizable under a full down of jagged, ragged feathers and hunched four legged silhouettes, until they were nothing more than vile beasts.

They took to the skies and prowled there as winged mercenaries for the forces of chaos and destruction. They haunted human citadels and villages, and hunted their inhabitants for meat and sport. At night, they screamed a vile chorus that promised destruction and malice to all those that were unlike them.

The humans fought to protect their lands, and restrain the creatures. But they could not exterminate them. Even without their Grace, the Angels were superhuman. They all but eradicated humanity in many places, but the decimation they wreaked was not enough to sate their bloodlust. On they continued, growing ever fiercer and crueler.

The last societies were on the brink of destruction when they were saved. A human mage discovered a way to keep the beasts at bay, with a series of sigils drawn around the perimeter of their cities, across which angels could not pass without incineration.

So prohibited, the Angels retreated to the wilderness where they could sate their appetites and anger with the beasts there. That was not the end of their violence, for those on the roads were still at risk of ambush and attack. But gradually, communities recovered. Citadels grew and trade routes were developed to form a network between cities, to ensure human development could continue.

A tentative kind of peace was established. The humans were largely secure to grow old and prosper. Only those who travelled on the roads were vulnerable to attack, but they became proficient at travelling furtively, and loss was minimal in comparison to previous centuries.

Those who did travel were largely traders, and those volunteer knights who protected them. Such soldiers were venerated as heroes, and considered saviours of their cities – particularly when drought or famine threatened to starve a city from the inside out, and they provided crucial supplies and medicines to their people from neighbouring towns.

For a time, there was peace. Or, at least, an absence of grand suffering.

…

My kind were rare, even centuries ago. We are the Angels still possessed of our Grace, who properly remember our Father and our home.

When we fell, we refused to engage in hatred. We afforded our Father's creation the admiration it deserved. By luck, our Grace was not extinguished before we understood its finitude. And so, we were spared.

We survived by living as careful soldiers – by eating and sleeping and drinking, as humans did, to avoid wanton consumption of Grace, and by cautiously avoiding accident to prevent the need for healing. But stasis did not suit us, and we worked tirelessly to protect the creatures that our Father cherished most.

When we could, we used our Grace to restore the lives of those we saw attacked, and to vanquish their attackers. Otherwise, we fought as humans against the creatures, and protected the travelers on the Roads.

But even a cautious life wielded casualties. Eventually, my brothers and sisters began to fall. Some fell by accident – they utilized the last vestiges of their Grace unthinkingly, having not felt the ache that marked its depletion. Others extinguished theirs deliberately by healing humans in spite of the ache. Some were injured so severely that their Grace could no longer repair them, and they died as humans died – screaming. Regardless, they all eventually re-awoke, to join the ranks of the unthinking. When they turned, we slit their throats to spare them the humiliation.

We did not know then that it was not enough to save them.

We fought until there were five of us remaining. When our final sister fell, we hid our Grace within ourselves and chose to refuse oblivion. We betrayed our brothers and sisters that had died in service of our Father's cause, and we chose cowardice, leaving the humans to die on the roads and retreating to the wilderness as hermits.

At first, we lived together as humans, but we grew tired of suffering and tired of each other. And we grew tired of the killing, and the pain of those absent grew too heavy. After some time, perhaps a century, we separated and we lived alone.

I know not whether my final brothers still live.

I have lived alone now for two hundred years, in the cottage in which this account is likely to be found. There is no other aspect of my life I wish to impart, for it is of no consequence, other than this:

God is dead. He has forsaken us to darkness and misery. God is dead. I am only one who was once a harbringer of the divine. But to that, no more.

.


	2. Suffer The World To Burn

**Chapter One**

Castiel had been waiting for a time so long that he no longer had the capacity to determine it. There was no light in the tomb, so there was no means by which to establish the passing of days. At first, he'd marked the passage of time by the appearance of visitors. Some had brought food and drink, and cleared the bucket in which he was forced to excrete. Others arrived for the purposes of torture. He approximated that the visits occurred every two or three days, since they were timed to occur when his skin had scarcely managed to seal itself over the shallowest wounds - Lilith said that recommencing the flow of blood made the first cut all the more entertaining.

There had been five or six visits for that purpose, maybe. They had stopped abruptly, and without explanation. So had the food. He assumed starvation was the new tactic for seeking information, for he had yet to disclose anything of use, despite the flaying and near-drowning and the loss of his fingernails and teeth. And the darkness. The perpetual darkness.

The malnourishment had set on quickly. His stomach growled, then cramped until he was screaming silently against the cold stones upon which he lay. After a while, he was too weak to cry, but he still shook violently and hallucinated nameless shapes and silhouettes that made him quake in terror and his stomach retch up empty, foul-smelling air.

It was a feeble hope that he could die and have it over with. In the darkness, perhaps he had already, once or twice. He hadn't imagined he had sufficient Grace left for resurrection. But in the silence, he was barely aware of himself for long periods and he doubted his brain would be able to distinguish between his empty surrounds, and actually passing out of existence momentarily.

The thought of eventual oblivion gave him comfort, but he supposed even that was out of his control now. Until Lilith desired it, at least.

He'd tried to hold on to the remnants of his Grace and prevent it from servicing his wounds, and his thirst and hunger. If he were restored to full health, Lilith could recommence her destruction of him over and over. He could not endure it. As feeble as he was now, she and Alastair could not stay with him for as long, before he passed into unconsciousness and she was forced to refrain.

But at some point, he'd become too weak to restrain the desperate throb of his Grace to calm the pain. It spread from his centre, throughout his body, with an icy buzz. It closed the gaping wounds, sealed the charred and infected skin on his body, and melded together the broken bones. It grew back the feathers that had been plucked from his wings and rejoined the severed tendons. His teeth and fingernails re-emerged too, and his hollow eye sockets were filled again.

Lilith had _so_ enjoyed the fact that his body could withstand far greater torture than could that of an ordinary human.

He didn't know whether the Grace had gone so far as to remove the scars that Lilith had inflicted, or whether he'd stopped it in time. He'd tried to warn it against such cosmetic remedies. But he'd been too weak and perhaps a little too mad for that. He couldn't see or feel in the darkness what he resembled now; he'd tried to run his hands across his skin to discern the extent of his remaining injuries, but his fingers were numb, even to the shape of himself beneath them. So his mind was left in darkness and uncertainty too.

Despite everything, his Grace had yet to deplete. He'd dreamed once or twice that the change had taken place. At times, he'd felt an itchiness all over his body, as though he would sprout the feathers that covered his brothers and sisters. At other times, he became convinced that his new teeth were loose and that they would fall out to be replaced with fangs.

But in his sane moments, he was aware that he was still human. How long such sentience could remain, he did not know – madness was so easy a descent in this isolation. At those times, he estimated it could not be long until he would become one of the soulless creatures he despised, and he would join his brothers and sisters in their frightened chaos. That itself was no comfort though, for Lilith would still have the power to restrain him and he could not guarantee he would be absent from the consciousness of the torture she may inflict then.

Perhaps that was the purpose of this starvation. He hadn't volunteered any useful information. Not of his brothers or sisters, his past, his relationship with Dean or the location of his cabin – the place where he hoped Dean had escaped. Even if he were forced to reveal the rest, he would hold onto that last sliver with every fiber of his being. He was a soldier and Dean was his cause. He could never betray him.

Lilith might be waiting then, to wait out the transformation and test the limits of his immortality. Perhaps they had developed new weapons which they believed would prevent re-animation. Lilith had mentioned a desire, at one point, to watch him explode. It would be a novel attempt at killing an Angel, certainly. He doubted it would work, all the same. Limb separation had never staved off the inevitable. Even if he were in pieces, he would eventually reassemble. Wherever his Father was, if indeed he still existed at all, the Gates of Heaven were closed, and Castiel could not descend to Hell. He would have no peace in death. He would inevitably return, no matter how vicious the assault.

At least combustion would be fairly painless. He'd prefer it to other methods. In his circumstance, he had to be grateful for small mercies.

Nonetheless, that could not stave off his terror at his containment. It was utterly horrific that he had no idea of how long he would be imprisoned. He could wait out eternity here. That in itself had been enough to nearly drive him mad, when God had forsaken him. An eternity without a sense of temporality was worse.

He let Dean keep him company at points, to hold back the mortification. He detailed every part of Dean to himself, so as not to forget. Every smell, touch, and taste. The different feelings of Dean's stubbled chin and neck with the skin behind his knees – the softest part. The curl of his eyelashes and all 32 freckles across his nose and cheeks. The lines of his palm and the length of his fingernails. The sound of his voice at every time of day – the way it rumbled early in the morning tiredness, and the way it rose by a smidgen when Castiel held his gaze. In his cold, dank surroundings, Dean's fantastical touch was a beacon of warmth and comfort and ceased his shivering, if only for a moment.

Other times, he hated thinking of Dean. He became overcome with fear of what had become of him, and convinced in his imaginings that Dean was in some other tomb, suffering at Lilith's hand. Those times, he took to counting. He'd counted to a billion. At least, he thought he did. But then he calculated that it would take him nearly 32 years to do so. He knew that wasn't right. It was a trick of his terrified mind, awaiting the next bout of violence.

And so he continued, awaiting the next punctuation to his isolation. He slept, he shivered and he despaired. And he waited.

…

Noise was enough to cause Castiel a momentary pain, for it was so long since he'd heard it. He could virtually feel his eardrums swelling with the shock, and his brain raced sluggishly through his mental catalogue of sounds, trying to translate what it had just heard. It wasn't until the second time he heard the sound that he properly processed its nature. It was, unmistakably, the scrape of the wall across from him across the cobbles, which formed the hidden entrance to his tomb through which Lilith and Alastair entered.

It didn't slide open smoothly, like he was used to hearing. Instead, the sound came in sharp staccato bursts, as the entrance was shuffled slowly against the cold stone.

Castiel didn't even bother to suppress his whimper at Lilith's return. He'd grown accustomed to the absence of pain in the time since the Grace had healed his body. And now it was restored to full capacity, it felt fear acutely and sharply, in bursts of adrenalin across the surface of his skin.

There was no sing-song greeting, or trill of laughter that would have usually met his submissiveness, however. Rather, an anxious male voice, accented in a way that he could not place.

"Who's there?"

Castiel did not stir at its unfamiliarity. Lilith would have her reasons for bringing a stranger, and for staying silent herself. She was bored with him, and his guttural screams at her hand, for her patience was indeed child-like. It was likely as he feared – Lilith had a new pet whose sadism surpassed even that of Alastair.

So, he did not speak or move, other than to curl a little in on himself and to blot out the oncoming panic with the calmer imagining of Dean in the field beside his cabin, leaning against Impala and watching the sun set over the mountains.

"Is someone there?" The unfamiliar voice punctured the silence again with a slightly lesser urgency and anxiety. Still, Castiel did not stir, preferring to avoid aggravating his assailant and delaying to onslaught for as long as he could manage.

From the other side of the door, there were a few murmurs. Through his thundering heart, Castiel only heard glimpses:

"It must have malfunctioned. There's no way…"

Castiel was no fool. He would not be susceptible to the oddness of the accents he heard or the language. This was likely a trick of Lilith's – a mental torture now designed to make him believe that mercy was attainable. She would wait until he was virtually certain that escape was a possibility before, likely, inflicting her most violent torture yet.

He had been blindfolded when he came here, but he knew that he was at the centre of a labyrinth, below the City. And his cell was only accessible to those who accompanied Lilith, for she had bound him with her sorcery. Escape was but a fantasy.

The sound of the murmurs on the other side of the wall was enough to drive him to grief though – the utter cruelty of it, after so much else, could not be borne. "Please. No."

It was barely a whisper, but in the suffocating silence, the words were loud enough for even dull ears to register and understand them. A moment later, he heard the voices again.

"Shit." The second voice was muffled and less clear, from behind the wall.

The first however, spoke clearly through the gap in the entrance that had been created. "Whoever you are, you need to get out of here now. This is a protected site."

Castiel didn't respond, but to suppress a small scream at the back of this throat and to press his palms against his eyes, now welling like a child's.

The first voice spoke again, now rising a little with urgency as it had previously.

"You're only getting one chance to come out. After that, we're calling the police."

Castiel nuzzled his face between his legs and moved his palms to cover his ears. They didn't help to press out the echoes of the voices in the tunnel behind the door – his ears were so long starved of human speech that they sought out the sound despite his intentions otherwise. He ignored it, but the words bled through anyway.

The first voice spoke again, with the speed of aggravation now.

"Don't be such a jerk. It's probably just some kids."

The unfamiliar language and the sound of irritance startled Castiel, and he began to gasp in earnest with terror, now sure that repercussion for his lack of compliance was only moments away. "Please Father," he plead tearfully to the waiting darkness, "please help me."

"What?"

There was a bated silence on the other side of the door.

The second voice was barely discernible through the heavy door "Did you just-?"

It was overridden by the louder cry of the first.

"Oh fuck. We've got to get in there!"

The door scraped further and longer this time, as Castiel heard the scuffle of feet and the grunts of effort from beyond it. When the sound ceased, he heard a body brushing through the narrow entranceway and into the room. A second later, a bouncing circle of light blared directly in his eyes. He scrunched them shut in terror and pressed back against the wall, wings flaring in an automatic defensive stance. One brushed against a chain on the floor, and it gave a tiny scrape as it moved across the rough cobbles.

The beam of light followed the sound, and settled on the chains to his left. When Castiel's eyes betrayed him, and inched open in curiosity momentarily he saw that the orb illuminated them. When the voice spoke again, it was higher, and more urgent. Almost as if sensing the minute movement, the orb swung up and once again blinded Castiel viciously. He responded more vigorously this time, raising his manacled arms and covering his eyes with them.

When the voice spoke again, it was urgent and loud. Castiel braced himself against the wall for the strike.

"Holy shit. GREG! Go get Mike! Get him down here. Right now! RIGHT NOW!"

There was the sound of hurried footsteps from beyond the door.

When he felt the warm touch of the orb move away from him Castiel curled his wings back on himself again, and shrunk away from the light that surveyed him and bounced of his body. He whimpered again as he sensed the man's approach and felt him drop to his knees in front of Castiel. His voice was soft, but he spoke with urgency and a carefully controlled tone.

"Do you need medical attention?"

"No. No. Please, leave me". He pulled his arms around himself beneath his wings, dragging the chains a little further along the floor with a light scrape. "Please."

The red orb behind his eyelids disappeared momentarily and there was a sharp intake of breath.

"Who chained you here?"

"Mmm", he whined inside the protective curve of his wins. Please, Lord, let it be over. No more trickery. No more torture. Let it end.

"Oh God. Greg!"The man yelled again. There was a tiny response from a long way away. "Yeah?"

"Bolt cutters! Bring me bolt cutters! And water! Fucking hurry!"

Castiel still had his eyes closed, away from the beam of light. He saw flashes of red behind his eyelids as it darted around anxiously.

"Hey, its ok. It's ok now. My name is Keith. We're going to get you out of here, ok?"

Castiel stiffened at the words, and the genuine compassion that laced them. Lilith was outdoing herself.

There was a tentative touch to his wing, which he hissed and recoiled from.

"It's ok, help is coming. Just hang on, alright?"

Castiel couldn't answer. But he started breathing out small sobs. The voice, it was so genuine in its concern and pity. There was none of Lilith's characteristic iciness in it – that thin undercurrent of brutality that ran under the childlike innocence that she liked to play at. It was too perfect an illusion – too easy to believe that salvation had really arrived. But it was impossible. When would the torment end?

"Please, calm down. It's going to be over soon… I'm not going to hurt you."

"Don't lie." Castiel recoiled from the voice even further, and hung his head deep between his knees so that it was almost completely covered by the swell of his wings, aside from the long line of his neck, which ached dully with the strain of the uncomfortable position.

"I'm not-…" the voice took a slow, deep breath and held it, as thought expecting something. Castiel felt the warmth of the orb ghost across his body. At the sound of a slight shift of movement in front of him, Castiel braced himself for the waiting strike, wings stiffened as though they could buffer against the force of the blows. It was a fruitless hope. He knew, when the beating started, he would be left a limp rag of a creature on the floor, sticky and stinking with his own blood.

"I'm here to help," the voice repeated uncertainly. "We can help, I promise. Please… just… Can you tell me what happened? How long have you been here?"

When Castiel remained silent, and there was a tiny, tentative touch to his wing again – it was more deliberate than the first, in that it didn't immediately recoil when he stiffened. Rather, it slid slowly across the wing in small repetitive circles. Castiel hissed again, entirely animal, but didn't move away, anticipating reprimand might follow. Lilith had once petted him like an animal, and when he recoiled she insisted he ought to be punished as one. At his alertness, the hand only faltered in its smooth movements – it didn't entirely remove itself from him.

"It's ok. It's gonna be ok now." The voice almost crooned, as though it were directed at an infant. And Castiel felt infantile – helpless and useless and petrified.

He was like a frightened animal beneath the touch. His body was alert to make a ready move, but it was paralyzed by the enormity of the task. It was all he could do not to shiver violently. Instead, he stayed as still as possible, as though to convince the voice that he was dead. His mind knew it was a fruitless effort, for he was beginning to rack out aching sobs in earnest, that caused his stomach to constrict and ache, but his body persisted, driven entirely by instinct of preservation.

As the hand moved though, and the voice kept speaking careful reassurances, although he couldn't properly register them, he became aware of a stranger sensation still. The hand that moved across him did not leave the characteristic chill of Alastair or Lilith's, or their instruments. It was dully warm, and the heat made the skin of his wing feel plump with it, while the rest of his skin stayed thin and dried out with the cold of the room.

It felt like… Dean. Not Dean, specifically – he'd have known that touch immediately. But… human. Alive and invigorated and moist with the pump of blood through its system. It might be another cruel trick but… Lilith and Alastair had never sent such a soul to him before. Those who assisted them felt like they did – stone cold and hard, smooth like marble and utterly lifeless. They were of the same kind. They were inhuman.

But this touch… this voice. It was warm and soft and feeling. It wasn't burning with heat and instinct like an animal – it was tempered, rational and caring. It was human.

His mind warned him against the small light of elation that ignited in his chest. This was what she wanted. She would delight in her success, even if it were a small one. Of course her deceit would be so utterly perfect; the move so utterly unpredictable that he would foolishly expect deliverance. She'd tailored the spectacle for him, for his love of humans. She would be so imaginative as to send a kind soul, and leave it entirely unaware of its purpose. Perhaps this man came here thinking he could provide Castiel with mercy. Lilith would slit his throat just to see Castiel scream.

His empty stomach retched and twisted, and he gargled out a kind of howl.

"Please… leave me".

"It's ok. We're going to help you."

Castiel shuddered properly now underneath the hand, and it withdrew abruptly.

"Send her in. Please, stop with this."

"What?"

Castiel buried his face in the crooks of his elbows and rocked back and forth slowly.

"Have it done with."

"Send who in?"

He swallowed, feeling his esophagus practically sticking to itself with dryness in fear and anticipation.

"Your Empress. Please, have mercy and let her have me."

"I don't…"

The hand abruptly seized his jaw and pulled it up to face directly into the orb of light.

"Have you taken any drugs?"

Castiel scrunched his eyes closed tighter and flinched away from the light.

"Please don't hurt me."

The hand released him quickly.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, I promise I'm here to help... But we need to know what you've taken. Please, answer me."

Terrified of the return of the touch, more brutal this time, he expected, he responded, small and ragged:

"I've taken nothing."

"If you've been given anything we need to know. Let us help you, ok? Do you remember anyone injecting you with anything? Or making you drink something?"

"They gave me some bread and water, at first. But they haven't returned in a long time. They left me here to die."

"Who are they? Do you know who did this to you?"

"The Empress, Lilith."

The voice breathed out in a low whistle and shifted away from him. "Oh fuck."

"Keith, what's goin on?" Another voice sounded out from behind the door.

"Mike, get in here! Where the hell is Greg?"

The body in front of Castiel shifted in the darkness and the orb turned to the wall, where, through the gap, an older bearded man squeezed through the gap between the door and the wall. He grunted as he moved through, having to maneuver himself rather vigorously in places, and we spoke his voice was tight with the exertion and his contained surroundings: "He's gettin' the bolt cutters. Sent me down here with nothin' but a hurry the fuck up. What the hell is goin' on?"

The orb of light is shone at Castiel's face once again.

"Who the hell is the idjit?" Castiel heard the bearded man stumble across the room, and trip. There was a scuffle as he seemed to collide with the other body. The older man muttered with aggravation, and rustled slightly. Moments later, another orb blared to life and Castiel once again curled in on himself, pulling his wings around him and scrunching his eyes against the blaring light.

The first voice was murmuring again, low and urgent.

"I don't know. He's caught up in some kind of chains. He's hallucinating, or tripped up on something. He thinks there's some torturers out to get him."

"Well how the hell did he get in here? Even we didn't know about this room until Greg started with that goddamn space stick…"

"I don't know, Mike He's totally out of it."

"Well, fuck me."

There was a silence as the lights surveyed him again.

"You got him to talk?"

"Not really, he just keeps freaking out – thinks I'm here to hurt him."

"Goddamnit, that idjit needs to get a move on."

"Who on earth would chain someone down here?"

"Some sick bastard… how the hell'd they get in though?"

"That door was so stiff! It can't have been moved that recently…"

They went on murmuring to one another and Castiel could do nothing but sit in wait, anticipating the first surprise strike. But there was slow trickle of curiosity filtering though his muscles, lessening a little of the tension in them. The charade had gone on long enough. And still Lilith had not appeared. Why was she waiting? She knew him well enough to know he would not so readily give in. The deceit had run its course. And he did not relent. She ought to have appeared in a fury, outraged that he had frustrated her little game.

But nothing. Could it be that-

"Mike! I've got the cutters." Another voice resonated through the chamber. It was much lower, with a tint of gravel in it, and another strange accent and words that Castiel could not comprehend. It was entirely unfamiliar. But then it was familiar. Despite its wrongness, Castiel heard it and knew. He'd know it anywhere.

"Dean!" His eyes flew open, and widened despite the burn of the orbs on his face with sudden ferocity. He threw back his wings as through throwing off a cloak and reached forward blindly into the darkness. His hands knocked the orbs out of the way, and as one fell it illuminated part of the body the voice was attached to. He didn't properly register its strange garment though, but only searched more frantically in the darkness – arms outstretched and manacles clanking against one another. "DEAN!"

"What the…?!"

The orb was roughly snatched up and directed back at Castiel. He squinted through it, aware of the slight coolness of his Grace as it raced to his eyeballs, and shielded them against the light they were no longer equipped to adjust to.

"Greg, get the hell in here! You got the cutters?"

"Yeah." There was more shuffling at the entrance and a frustrated grunt, before Dean was stumbling towards him, tripping, like the second voice had. The orbs moved to illuminate the hands which passed between them a number of objects that Castiel did not recognize.

A moment later a hand thrust a bottle in his face, which made a few short snapping noises under the tense grip of its holder. It pressed against his lips, and his mouth out of shock or habit, opened for its contents. He took a few quick gulps and reached forward blindly again, grasping for Dean.

"Where's Lilith? We have to hurry." The hand attempted to push the water bottle back to his mouth, but he whacked at it in frustration. It fell to the ground without shattering (the remarkableness of which Castiel did not have time to contemplate) and Castiel felt the liquid pool against his naked leg.

"Jeez, Keith, what the fuck?"

Castiel grabbed in the direction of the voice, and found himself pulling at leather. His scrabbled frantically, trying to find Dean's face or arms, but Dean shuffled backwards and out of his reach.

"Son of a bitch!"

"He's hallucinating or something. Just try to keep him calm. I've got to cut these chains."

"Like hell. He's crazy."

At the loss of the contact, Castiel's throat swelled with panic. Fear, love. He didn't know what it was. But it was extreme, and pressing. "Dean! Where are you?"

He fought against the chains, reaching forward and straining against them, for they were fully extended now, to once again find Dean in the darkness.

"Greg! I need you to keep him still! He's freaking out."

"He's nuts!"

Dean's voice was higher now, and strangely panicked.

"He thinks you're his rescuer or something. For God's sake, just give him what he wants for a few minutes."

"Goddamit Greg, do what he says." The second voice was nothing but a quiet rumble. The other was frustrated and urgent.

"Hold him down if you have to, just get on with it."

The orbs of light turned to illuminate the manacle on his right hand. A moment later Castiel gasped as he felt the touch of a hand against his upper arm. He grabbed at the arm attached to it and folded himself into it, burying his face against the shoulder.

"Oh God, Dean." He murmured it so softly against the leather Dean was clothed in that he doubted he'd even said it at all. But he felt Dean stiffen against him and the hand that had been on his arm, pulled away slightly, so that the touch was feather light and barely there. Still, underneath it, Castiel felt the familiar skim of energy across his skin and the tingle that felt like it was rejoicing – yes, it was Dean.

"Jesus, Keith this isn't what I signed up for."

"Hold on."

Castiel stuttered against Dean's shoulder, torn between burying himself against him, and sneaking in quick sharp breaths. His whole body was seizing up with the relief of it – that Dean was here, and unharmed, and that they were together.

He'd been so cold in the tomb for so long, and the slight warmth of Dean's skin beneath his clothing was enough to feel like a burn against his own bare skin. Still, he sought it out anyway, moving his face higher up Dean's chest, seeking out the exposed flesh at his neck and burying his face into it. Dean twitched a little at the contact, but didn't recoil. Slowly, his arm worked around Castiel until Dean's palm was flat against Castiel's upper arm. Dean removed it almost immediately, startled.

"Fuck, he's freezing, we have to get him out of here."

Immediately, the grip around Castiel's shoulder tightened and Dean pulled him into his chest in earnest. Castiel flattened his wings against his back, to allow Dean's arm to properly encircle him, and kept his face buried in Dean's neck, letting his smell slowly ease him out of his panic.

"I'm on it, Greg. Hey, hey man. What's your name?"

Castiel didn't bother to answer, until Dean shook his shoulder lightly. Castiel withdrew his face from Dean's neck for a moment only, to murmur out.

"Cas. I'm Cas."

Dean rewarded him with vigorous rubs to the skin of his arm; the heat which the friction created was almost painful on Castiel's frozen skin. Despite the discomfort, Castiel sighed in relief against Dean's neck and, which only served to make Dean rub harder.

"Ok ok, Cas, I need you to hold out one of your arms. I'm going to take the chains off." The first voice was a little calmer, and gentle. It was a request, not an order – Castiel barely remembered the last time that hadn't been the case.

Castiel obliged, still keeping his face tightly pressed against Dean's shoulder. There was a clunk that was followed by a kind of crunch, and he felt the immediate loss of the weight from his wrist.

"That thing practically fell apart. It's freaking ancient! How the hell did it hold him down here?" Dean's chest vibrated where it was pressed against Castiel's, and Castiel felt Dean move against him as he reached with his free hand and to grasp at the manacle.

"Not really an important question right now. Other hand, Cas."

Castiel slid his other hand in between his bare chest and Dean's, only moving away from him minutely. When that weight was relieved too, he promptly wrapped his arms around Dean, one around his neck, and the other up the back of his spine so that his hand was wound in Dean's hair.

Dean took a deep breath, the exhale of which Castiel felt tickle against his ear. He gave a light sob against Dean's neck, and when his mouth opened to emit it, his lips came in brief contact with Dean's skin. The cry was breathed out against Dean's bare skin and Castiel felt the strange iciness of his own breath spread across his face as it bounced back at him.

He felt Dean twitch beneath the contact. Dean cleared his throat and then spoke, his voice now deeper again, and less anxious.

"We good, Keith? Let's get him out of here."

"Yeah, we're good. Here Mike, grab the torch."

Dean made to move away from Castiel, but Castiel merely held tighter.

"Ok ok. Hold on, Cas. I got you. Mike, light please?"

Castiel felt the touch of the light on his skin again, but the sensation was duller now in his proximity to the burn of Dean's body. Dean grunted a little as he adjusted himself awkwardly around Castiel's unmoving frame and he positioned himself to slide his free arm under Castiel's knees. A moment later, Dean was staggering upwards, and Castiel felt them brush a little against the body of one of Dean's companions as he momentarily lost his balance. There was a brief touch of hands to his outer shoulder as one of the men steadied them, and then the touch was withdrawn.

"Ok Cas, getting you out of here now." Dean murmured low and into Castiel's ear. The urgency of his tone was gone and it was now soft and careful, as though Castiel were but a wounded animal.

The two men struggled with the door for some time to open it wide enough to allow both Castiel and Dean to pass through. Dean held him the entire time, and a few times Castiel felt the press of his cheek against the top of his head. "You ok, Cas?"

Castiel merely let the tip of his nose run up Dean's neck in reply. Dean cleared his throat again and jostled Castiel, jostling him minutely to adjust his grip.

"Hurry up, would you?"

"Doin' our best boy."

Eventually the door gave way with a loud scrape, and Dean stumbled through first, his heart thudding at his chest and against Castiel's side.

Castiel didn't properly remember exiting the tomb, or winding through the tunnels that lead to the surface. The duration of their journey didn't strike him as odd, and he barely flinched at the touch of light on his skin, his Grace once again flaring to protect it (for had been so long unexposed) before he could stop it. But he could barely think of it, or notice the ache, if there was one. All he was aware of was Dean. _Dean._

…

"Put him here. Where's Jess?"

"She was callin' emergency."

Dean lowered Castiel carefully against a stone wall. Unlike the stones of the tomb, they were warmed by the rays of sun. Castiel barely felt them though through the warmth that bubbled in his chest from Dean's proximity. As Dean jostled, Castiel loosened his grip on Dean's neck momentarily, to let himself be set down.

As Dean lay him against the bricks, and carefully pulled backwards, his hands running across Castiel's muscles and ensuring that he had the strength to lean against the wall, they came face to face.

Castiel breathed heavily for a few seconds, drinking in the sight of Dean before him, keeping his arms loosely around his neck. The man he thought he'd never see again and the man he loved more than anything. Here, before him again, when Castiel had believed he'd been taken from him forever.

"Dean." He breathed it. Over and over, rejoicing at the name on his tongue and the feel of those eyes on his face again.

There was a long pause. They both stared at each other, in disbelief and incredulity. And then Castiel pushed himself up with all his strength and forward against Dean, grabbing at Dean's face with both hands and bringing their foreheads together, the tips of his nose just brushing Dean's own and his lips parting and touching and-

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean's hands were against his chest, and he was pushed away violently. Dean was standing up and backing away, as he watched Castiel on the ground.

Castiel looked up and leaned towards him.

"Dean. It's me. It's Cas."

Horror transformed Dean's face like an artist, and he raised his hands in front of him defensively, crouching as though in a show of deference.

"Keith, can you deal with this?"

Castiel looked to the right of Dean, where an incredibly tall and muscular man stood. He knew him too, although the familiarity of his voice had not registered in the tomb.

"Sam!"

"What?" Sam squinted at Castiel, as though it might assist him in recognition, and titled his head. Then, his palms twitched too, and he raised them to mimic Dean's as Castiel started for him.

Dean looked desperately at Sam, his hands apart in a gesture of confusion and urgency. "He's jumped up on something nasty! We need to lock him down."

Sam's voice was hurried and urgent again. "He's sick. We can't freak him out like that."

"Dean." Castiel reached for him weakly again.

"He wants you, Greg. He's not going to hurt you. Can you just try and calm him down for a few minutes?" Sam kept his eyes on Castiel, but glanced back at Dean anxiously, a plea written across his face.

"Like hell! You saw what he just tried to do!" Dean's mouth curled up in incredulity, and when he saw Castiel was watching him again he gestured angrily at him, as if to make his point.

"He's confused! Someone's left him there to die!" Sam walked over and tried to push Dean towards Castiel.

"I'm not fucking touching him!"

"For God's sake, Greg!" There was a new voice – a female one, that Castiel didn't know. From behind Sam emerged a tall blond girl, with messy curly hair. "He needs help. He's terrified!"

"He's hallucinating!" Dean looked away from Castiel's persistent and pleading gaze, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Someone has to help him while we wait for the ambulance. If you don't, I will." The girl made to start forward towards him but Sam pulled her back.

"That's not happening. You can't go near him, he could be dangerous."

"You two are the danger to him right now, leaving him to shiver there like that. At least get him a blanket or something. All he's got are those rags – look!"

She pointed as Castiel drew his wings around himself with his hands, keeping his gaze firmly on the back of Dean's neck.

Was this a dream? A cruel trick of his mind? He'd thought about Dean so often in captivity, and tried to find solace in their time together. He thought of him so often that dream Dean came alive, and when he held Castiel close he could actually smell the salt of sweat on his skin, and the hint of the leather he spent his days wearing. But in those dreams, he talked to Castiel with love and affection. He touched him tenderly, whether it was an embrace as they fell asleep, or hot and urgent kisses along Castiel's jaw and down onto his shoulder.

But the Dean that was before him was a mimicry. He looked the same and he spoke with the same low rumble that Castiel had replayed over and over in his head. But instead of endearments, his words were cruel and sharp. Where there had been familiarity there was strangeness and emptiness. And where there was love there was now hate and fear.

"I need to wake up." Under the cover of his wings, he grabbed his thigh and pinched the skin as hard as he could. He felt it as his nails pierced through the skin, and the warm scent of blood filled the air. The pain was nothing to what he'd suffered previously, but if felt as real as it did in his waking hours. He gave a whimper of fear as the world around him failed to disassemble and rematerialize in his cell.

"What?" Sam's eyes flickered back to him, and Castiel widened his own, pleading with him.

"He's trying to talk, Greg. For God's sake help him!"

The blonde girl pushed Dean forwards towards Castiel. Unlike the push of Sam, which he'd rebuffed, he let her, but glared in anger and swore under his breath: "this is fucking insane."

As he inched towards Castiel he held his hands out in a gesture of surrender: "It's ok. I won't hurt you."

Castiel made no move to unwrap himself from his wings, and shut his eyes as Dean came closer and tried to block out the sounds and smells around him, and will himself back into consciousness.

He felt as Dean's weight settled near, but not beside him, and a hand reached out to press tentatively at the wing wrapped around his shoulder.

"It's ok, Cas. It'll be ok soon. Just a few more minutes."

"Please don't torment me. No more." Castiel shrunk away from the touch and pulled his wings tighter about himself.

"It's ok, Cas. The people that are coming. They can help you."

He burrowed his head into his wings and didn't answer, except for a muffled sob of desperation that the taunting be over.

The hand reached for his wing again, and ran along it a little way, soft at first but then more curious and pressing.

"What the-?" As it grasped more firmly at the ulna bone, Castiel let his wing swell out and forced the hand away from him.

At the movement of his left wing, the right responded too, mimicking the gesture and extending outwards. As they stretched to their full span, Dean fell backwards and scrabbled away from him, his eyes widening with horror as they surveyed the wing from base to tip.

"Son of a bitch!"

There was a collection of startled gasps. Castiel ignored them and reached for the skin that he had punctured and tore at it, trying to create enough pain to wake himself up. There was still nothing. A moment later, as the wound opened and began to bleed in earnest, he felt a flare of Grace rise in his chest. Before he could stop it, he witnessed the wound close and seal itself at a speed that if he'd blinked he would have missed it.

"Did he just…?"

Sam's voice was a bare whisper as he staggered a little, and the girl grabbed at his elbow to steady him.

"Those are…" she swallowed down the shake rising in her voice before continuing. "Those are wings."

Castiel stroked at his thigh in shock for a moment before he looked up. There was nothing. No ache in his Grace at the spontaneous act of healing. Not even a slight feeling of weakness. It should have dragged at his very soul to carry out such a healing. That was what it had felt like in the cell, as the last remnants of Grace strove to remedy Lilith's atrocities. He had to be in a dream, for his Grace to act so readily and so efficiently, as it had when he had been connected to heaven. At once, he placed two fingers to his own temple and sent a shock of Grace strong enough through his own body to shock him into waking.

But the world stayed where it was. He felt it jolt through his body, and spread a white heat so hot that it was cold through his body stretching right through to his fingertips. As it moved, he felt the ache in his wings disappear, and the terror in his stomach dissipate. He felt it as his whole body – his whole _being_ – miraculously _healed._

This was…this was real. This wasn't a figment of his imagination. He couldn't have created it. He was hearing accents he'd never heard. Seeing clothes he'd never seen. Hearing strange names and strange language and seeing a strange world. And he was recovered –his Grace was restored, and it was real. He couldn't deny that as it singed through his skin and burrowed into his bones, invigorating every part of his being with _life_ and _consciousness._

He raised his eyes to Dean, who had scrabbled to his feet and backed away slowly, hands raised in a defensive gesture and eyes pleading.

"Please. We're not gonna hurt you. Please just… leave us be."

"Keith. He looks like a-" The girl was whispering in Sam's ear, but Castiel's rejuvenated ears picked up the sound instantly. She didn't finish her sentence when Castiel's gaze fell upon her.

"When am I?"

When she answered, her voice was trembling slightly.

"Stromwich Castle. In Warwick."

"No, _when _am I? How many years has it been since the death of Christ?"

"What the hell?" Dean narrowed his eyes at Castiel, but he withdrew backwards when Castiel turned to look at him once more.

"Answer me… please."

The man's eyebrows raised and he swallowed slightly before stuttering through his answer: "It's 2013."


	3. And Let the Ash Fill Your Eyes

2013. 2013. Six hundred years, or thereabouts. 600 years in the tomb, in a constant state of fear and panic and existential desperation.

More importantly, six hundred years in which his Grace had preserved itself and his body. And six hundred years in which it subsisted without the ache of overuse. He was still sentient, and unchanged from his human form.

But that was impossible, he knew. He'd been on the brink the last time he'd seen Dean. He'd felt the ache, and he knew Dean had felt his Grace duller in him. His brothers and sisters had barely lasted weeks once the weakness set in – even sparing their Grace, it had been consumed by small, unconscious incidents and, one by one, they had fallen.

Six hundred years, without food and water. Dehydration should have killed him in days. Starvation too. The wounds that had been inflicted upon him should have killed him – his Grace shouldn't have been strong enough to resurrect a body literally torn to pieces.

But, within him, the Grace was unfettered. And vibrant still. Now alert to its presence, he felt it buzz through him, resulting in an uncontained and unbridled sensation that he had no longer been able to recollect. It was a searing, bright, purifying coolness that cut through every cell in his body blurring the line between pain and magnificence. He might have thought it a trick of his shattered and fragmented mind, after the chaos that had been inflicted upon it. But there was no mistaking it, for no other sensation could even minutely resemble it – even human imagination. For it was the only thing entirely pure – the touch of the divine.

It was unmoving and unresponsive, like a muscle deteriorated from disuse. Though he could not yet manipulate it consciously, he knew what it was, as sure as he knew himself.

His Father's hand was upon his shoulder once again.

...

It was in his contemplation of his renewed divine nature that Castiel found himself distracted from the events that transpired at the mouth of his tomb. He had only fleeting and distorted remembering of how he left that place and came to be located in the room in which found himself seated in, some hours later.

At some point, someone had made a decision, and the group had overcome its trepidation and bundled him into a wagon. The wagon was drawn, not by animals, but a remarkable kind of force that seemed to be centred at its front. It seemed to originate along its base, for it rumbled there with a vicious, but controlled purr.

He knew Dean had refused to sit near him, and had instead taken his own wagon, with the woman beside him. His escorts, Sam and Bobby, may have addressed him, but he did not remember the contents of their statements.

He did remember witnessing a strange new world that awaited him outside of the darkness of his tomb, but he had not properly committed its contents to his memory. He remembered being lead by a comforting hand to the seat upon which he had been placed, but he could not remember who owned such a touch, nor the reason he had been left to wait here. Except that the hand was not Dean's.

His mind was overcome with contemplation still, even after what felt like hours here. It was impossible, what he had witnessed. Dean was dead. Dead for hundreds of years, and now at home with his Father in eternal bliss (for Castiel had no doubt that his character would not be found wanting). Sam was dead too, and Bobby. They too would now locate with his Father, in their eternal accommodation. There was no defying that eternity - Castiel was sure of it. The only path out of Heaven was compulsory expulsion. But that would be expulsion to the Pit, and to eternal torment.

But yet, Dean was before him. He knew that, as certainly as he knew his own name. He was changed, surely, in mental and physical aspect, but he was _Dean_. Castiel couldn't say how he knew so, other than that he felt it in the air between them and in the skin on his palms and in the sound of his own breathing. Everything about him screamed that he was Castiel's, despite the logical and metaphysical impossibility, and Dean's lack of recognition thereof.

Castiel's Grace sensed it with the kind of conscious intuition with which he could once identify his siblings by the mere sound of their wings beating against the air. Even currently unable to discern Dean's true face - for his Grace was inflexible, stiff and utterly weak to his orders – he knew.

Only Dean didn't remember. He called himself by another name and protested his ignorance if their acquaintance. He looked at Castiel with fear and distaste, and recoiled from him.

And that should have been enough for logic to outweigh the intuitive connection. Castiel should not be able to entertain such thoughts as he did now. But for the outstanding, illogical, serendipitous coincidence that this man had been at the mouth of Castiel's tomb. With his brother and his mentor, or their likeness, too. But, knowing what he did of heaven's boundaries and of the universe's mysteries, there was but one explanation that defied absurdity, and it was not coincidence. It was that Dean had defied Death, and had returned to him. Somewhere, within this stranger, was the man he had pledged his life to.

And for that reason, Castiel endured the strangeness, and the foreignness of being lead away from Dean with Sam and Bobby, who he had barely known in their last life together. Despite the remarkable fact that his Grace was restored, entailing that the doors of heaven must be open, Castiel was only occupied with one thought:

To witness him again. To speak with him again. And to determine how his soul would be best recovered from the abyss within the man that it was restricted to and returned to him.

And so he waited where he was directed to wait – on a seat that was unlike any he had encountered before, that sunk under his weight and made light groans when he moved upon it. Bobby and Sam sat nervously by a door, watching him, and appeared to imagine they would restrict his exit (for they followed his every movement with furtive glances). He did not bother to explain that, even depowered as he was now, their efforts would be fruitless – he could pop them apart as easily as if they were a hair on his own head.

Instead, he occupied himself with the unfamiliarity of the world he now inhabited, properly taking in its foreign nature. Every aspect was unfamiliar, aside from the basic structure of the room (but even that was modified to more readily admit the sun's rays into the area). The floor was soft, and it felt spongy to walk upon. The walls were adorned with an odd kind of pattern that looked as though it were meant to mimic the cracked texture of the water's surface as winter's icy grip began to alter its density. The furniture was puffy, rather than carved, and it sunk under his weight where he had deposited himself upon it.

The smells were bizarre too – instead of wood and smoke and harvest, there were sharp tangy aspects to the air that Castiel had no grounds for comparison with in his own mental catalogue of his Father's creation. It was louder too – there were high pitched rings in the air that seemed to emit largely from the area Castiel assumed was the kitchen (for he saw some fruit laid across one of the surfaces, and bizarre but recognisable eating utensils piled beside it). The same came from a large black box that sat centred in the room, which was dully reflective such that Castiel could just make out his silhouette on its front.

Sam and Bobby were agitated and kept standing and checking the window. At one point Sam pulled a small device from his clothing and pressed at it so that it clicked. When he held it to his ear, he spoke into it, as though to make a normal conversation with Bobby. But Bobby was not the intended receiver of his speech.

"What the hell is taking so long, Greg?"

The voice on the other end was muffled, and crackled and popped oddly. Nonetheless, even from the other side of the room Castiel could discern it.

"Jess happened. She's come over all crazy. She made me stop off at this library. She's been in there for an hour now."

"Have you thought about getting her to get moving?" Sam's voice was exasperated and frustrated, in a way that Castiel did not remember witnessing previously, in their brief acquaintance. It was a frustration that belied no deeper and more abiding affection towards Dean.

"Like hell. I'd like to see you try. What's happening back there?"

Sam threw a cautious glance at Castiel, who gazed mildly back and quirked his head at the odd play of light across Sam's cheek that emitted from the item he held to his ear. It, too, was entirely unfamiliar. In a way, it was almost a pale imitation of the light of his Grace – in the sense that a blade of grass could be compared to the Amazonian jungle.

When Sam replied, it was with a careful murmur, but his guilty glance at Castiel showed he was aware it was understood: "He's done nothing. He's just sitting there."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Has he talked?"

"No... he was kinda spaced out. We tried, but he's just ... staring."

"That's... good, I guess. Hold tight. Jess is sure she's onto something."

"Yup, good. Just hurry up."

"Yeah, I'm _trying_." There was a click and then the buzz and chatter that had emitted from the device ceased.

Sam flipped the item so that it closed in on itself and threw an exasperated and stressed glance at Bobby. As he made to put the item back in his pocket, Castiel spoke, barely a whisper, but with enough gravel behind it that he could be sure he was heard from the other side of the room.

"May I see that?"

Sam started and froze in place. He looked at Bobby, who shrugged. But when Sam held the phone out to him, he recoiled.

"He asked you, boy."

Sam swallowed and rose off his seat slowly and cautiously. When it became apparent he didn't have the nerve to approach Castiel, Castiel extended his hand for the thing. The movement caused Sam to stop in his tracks momentarily, but with a careful breath he exhaled and crossed the room at a consciously normal pace and dropped the thing in Castiel's outstretched hand.

Castiel didn't understand what Sam said next, but, by Bobby's reaction, it appeared to be a statement that should have been made before he passed the item, delivered late out of nerves: "Sure, here you go."

Castiel held the thing close to his face, listening for the same ring that emanated from the black box. This was different, but discernible. It read in waves, that rolled in upon themselves, expressing a pattern he did not immediately understand.

Slowly, he ran his fingers along its edge for the gap between the parts that could separate from each other. When he found it, he maneuvered the thing so he felt the point of least resistance, and flipped it open, as he had seen Sam do.

When it opened, he was subject to the full impact of its illumination. It was unlike the light of the sun, or fire. In a way, it was more like starlight, for it shivered a little under his gaze and passed in and out of full exposure.

"This thing empowers you to communicate with others?"

Sam watched Castiel's fingers run over the numbered circles that occupied the surface of one of the parts. They dropped beneath Castiel's fingers when he exerted pressure, and appeared on the surface of the other part, which emitted the light. After a few deliberate presses, Castiel realised that the numbers that appeared did so upon his instruction, when he deliberately made the circles click shallowly into the surface of the thing.

"Yeah... uh. It's a phone."

"How does it work?"

Sam's brow furrowed and he looked to Bobby. "Uh... it's a sophisticated kind of radio. If someone else has one, I can dial their number and... we can talk."

"What is a _radio_?"

Castiel carefully pronounced the word, to show he had attempted to understand it.

"It's... electromagnetic radiation. It travels in waves. If you have the right transmitter and receiver you can use it to... communicate."

He faltered as Castiel held the phone to his ear again. "You employ these waves purely for communication?"

Sam stuttered.

"Are they also employed for that thing?"

He pointed at the black box at the end of the room.

Both Sam and Bobby's eyes widened at that. Sam opened and closed his mouth to provide an answer, but didn't manage it. Bobby supplies one instead when an uncomfortable silence fell.

"Yes... how did you-"

"How do you utilize the waves to communicate deliberately?"

Sam recovered from his gormless moment to supply the answer, although he spoke uncertainly, as though he could not quite believe what he was saying: "if you.. .use a resonator... you can project across certain waves at that frequency. If another person accesses them... they can hear."

Castiel nodded and extended his hand, holding out the phone to Sam.

When Sam took it, seemingly careful to avoid making contact with Castiel's skin, Castiel pointed at the box at the end of the room.

"Is that also used for communication?"

Sam pointed at the thing and Castiel nodded in affirmation that it was the entity that he was curious about.

"In a sense..." Sam crossed the room and placed his hand upon a silver square that sat upon it's front-facing surface. "It's called a television. It's more one-sided."

He pressed the square of the television as Castiel had pressed the circles on the phone. At once, it roared to life and its surface was illuminated with a similar artificial kind of light that had lit the phone. Unlike the phone, however, its surface projected a moving image, which was accompanied by the sound of a human voice.

"...lined the streets to commemorate the-"

Sam hit another square on the television and the voice immediately disappeared. "You can't use this to talk to other people, like with phones, but you can watch things. At any time of day or night."

"What things would you desire to watch?"

"Uh... news, like this – things that have happened throughout the day. Or... stories, about people or places... for fun."

Castiel tried to process the meaning through the unfamiliar words – in essence, he understood its purpose, although its operation remained remarkable.

He nodded and reclined in the seat. As he moved in it, it made an odd noise, almost of reluctance. He blinked at the oddness of the sound and let his gaze drop to his hands after he witnessed Sam and Bobby staring openly at him.

After some time, he heard Sam press the silver square again, and the images on the television flickered off. Sam and Bobby murmured between themselves, and Castiel didn't bother to make out the content of their discussion. If he had, their unfamiliar language was still an impediment to any significant understanding.

Even removed from the tomb, his conception of time was flawed. He might have sat for minutes, or hours, before there was a knock at the door and Sam shot up and raced towards it.

"Keith?" The voice of the blonde woman was discernible through it. Sam hurriedly removed the chain that appeared to keep the door secure against intrusion, and fumbled somewhat until it swung open and Castiel was greeted with the sight of Dean.

He stood behind the woman - it appeared extremely reluctantly - for he glowered when she immediately attempted to push through the doorway. At first, Sam attempted to block her path, but, despite her height, which was not far off Sam's, she nimbly ducked under his arm and made her way to Bobby, clutching at a stack of white squares that she held against her chest.

Sam and Dean conversed in quick, hurried voices in the doorway. Sam appeared to attempt to pull Dean inside, but Dean resisted and pulled is arm away from Sam's grip. Castiel made to focus his attention to the conversation, but they stopped almost immediately upon noticing his eyes upon them.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, and tilted his head towards Castiel.

"Seriously, Greg. Fucking come on."

Under Castiel's gaze, Dean seemed to become temporarily paralysed, and the opportunity was enough for Sam to pull him inside and to slam the door. He went to fumble with it once again, and Castiel heard a click that he assumed meant the insurance of security against entry.

Dean didn't move from the spot he was rooted upon, but he studiously avoided Castiel's stare. It appeared he felt it, however, when his fingers twitched nervously after Castiel's eyes fell upon them. Eventually, Sam brushed past him and knocked him out of his stupor, and he made a short trip the empty frame that marked the entrance to the kitchen, where he leaned, arms crossed, staring at Bobby with an expression of determination that Castiel recognized from the Dean-he-knew's more stubborn turns, although its steeliness was new.

There was a coldness in his gaze and a stiffness in his posture that suggested he was preparing himself for the onslaught of a threat. Under the burden of his presence, Castiel looked away from him and instead focused upon the blonde woman who stared at him expectantly – she was the only face in the room upon which it felt comfortable to look, for hers did not so cruelly mimic a happier past.

"Cas?"

She spoke meekly too, but there was a hint of a failed forced confidence in her voice that made it crack a little.

Castiel looked directly at her, but didn't acknowledge her otherwise, instead shifting his gaze to witness Dean's reaction. Dean pursed his lips, but didn't meet the look, instead only adjusting his arms and pulling them tighter around himself.

The woman turned to Sam.

"Has he said anything?"

Sam looked at Castiel furtively before answering: "He asked about my phone. And I showed him the TV. Nothing since then."

She looked to Bobby but he shrugged too and looked back to Castiel, who met his gaze but said nothing. In truth, he didn't know what to say, other than to watch for signs of the souls he was desperately seeking to find in these strangers.

"Cas, my name is Jessica."

She quirked her lips into a nervous kind of smile, which faded when Castiel appraised her, but said nothing.

Her eyes were sliding back to Sam when Castiel responded. "Hello, Jessica."

She gave a little intake of breath that was so abrupt it made her hiccup slightly. Turning back to him, she blushed a little and dropped her gaze deferentially when she witnessed his stare.

Castiel raised his eyes to Dean, who still avoided looking at him, and stared determinedly at the floor, in a contained but thunderous looking stance.

Sam and Bobby looked at each other nervously, and Jessica turned to Sam and looked questioningly.

The impasse lasted some time before Castiel spoke:

"Thank you. For retrieving me from that prison. I am entirely indebted to you."

The three seated together turned to look at Dean, who looked away stubbornly, and accidentally met Castiel's eyes for a moment. His expression was one of utter terror when their gazes met, although it flashed across his face only quickly before a dark grimness smothered it. Dean turned away from him.

Sam was the first to respond and attract Castiel's gaze back to the group.

"You're... welcome."

Sam shifted in his seat uncomfortably when Castiel's gaze turned back to Dean.

It was a long time before the woman spoke.

"Are you... alright now?"

Castiel quirked his lips at her: "Yes. I am recovering."

There was another long pause.

"Cas... can I ask you something, about what you are?"

Castiel didn't look at her when he answered, instead watching as Dean flinched a little at the sound of his voice when he spoke. He felt his own wings flinch in response, as though his own voice inflicted a burden on him too: "Yes."

"Are you... I-"

She looked back at Sam, who merely stared back at her wide-eyed.

"What I mean to say is..."

She faltered again under Castiel's gaze and bit her lip. "This is crazy."

Castiel transferred his gaze to Dean before he spoke, keeping an eye for his reaction. "I am not of your kind."

Dean stiffened and kept his eyes determinedly fixed upon the floor.

"I am an Angel of the Lord."

Dean recoiled as though he had been hit and turned his gaze furiously on Jessica. "You need to take him to the hospital. Now."

"He's not hurt."

"He's nuts."

"Greg-"

"The police then. You need to get him the fuck out of here."

Castiel looked away from Dean to Jessica, who watched him anxiously.

"I am no danger to you."

Dean's shoulder twitched as though Castiel had touched it and he gave a little shiver up his spine. He failed to acknowledge the words, however.

"Jess... please."

"Greg... you saw what happened. We all did. He's –"

"Why are you afraid of me?" Castiel's voice was soft, but the sound of it was enough to turn the room to silence.

Dean's head snapped up. He kept his eyes on the wall and Castiel watched as a muscle twitched in his cheek, so that the skin sunk in momentarily. His jaw, however, remained set and tense, as though he were grinding his teeth beneath the flesh.

"I am sorry for astounding you, before. I was in a state of distress, and I did not understand what was happening."

The muscle twitched again, and Dean met his eyes, carefully and slowly. They were glassy, as though he would obscure their expression from Castiel.

"Your voice... it sounds like a man I once knew. He had promised to rescue me, although I had hoped he would not. I thought you were him."

"Dean."

Castiel's head snapped away from Dean and back to Jessica, who looked immediately as though she regretted pronouncing the name.

He tried to manipulate his face into an expression of kindness, when he responded, although it pained him to hear the name spoken with such unfamiliarity, as though Dean were not with them at that exact moment: "Yes".

"So... Angels are real."

The gruff voice was Bobby's. Castiel looked up at him and sighed softly when he saw the way Bobby too stiffened under his gaze.

"Yes."

"Is God real?"

That was Sam, and the question tumbled out in a mess of words, so that its meaning was barely discernible. It was a question Castiel had anticipated however, so he provided the answer without clarifying: "Yes.""

There was a silence before Bobby spoke again: "Fuck me."

The silence swam in the air like thick sludge, making any attempt at speech strenuous. And mortifying.

Eventually, Castiel himself broached it, attempting to quirk his lips into a small smile as he met the gaze of the three seated, attempting to ignore the coldness that radiated from Dean.

"I am sure that those cannot be the only questions you have for me."

Jessica stifled a small laugh at that, but looked horrified when his gaze fell upon her. "I- I'm sorry."

He inclined his head at her. "You have no reason to be. I am indebted to _you_."

Her right eye twitched. "No... not me. Greg, really. It was him."

Castiel's eyes flickered back to Dean, who shot an expression of pure fury at Jessica.

"How did you discover my whereabouts?"

Clearly not anticipating a response from Dean, Jessica spoke again. "We're... doing a project at the site. Mike-" she gestured to where Bobby sat, "is a professor of archaeology at Durham University. And he supervises Keith-" she gestured at Sam, "for his PhD."

Castiel squinted at the unfamiliarity of the words. "You are scholars?"

"Yes! Well... I'm doing my Masters in the fall. I'm here on an internship from Stanford. It's a... college in... America."

Castiel's brow furrowed as he processed the unfamiliar words. "I don't understand."

"What she means is, uh... " Sam – _Keith_ – spoke, "is that we're uh, students of history and of ancient sites."

Castiel nodded slowly.

"Anyway, uh..." Sam looked uncertainly at Dean, who failed to provide any acknowledgment of the glance, "there was some building that some people wanted to do at the site and Bobby and I were called in to check to see if the area had any archaeological value, to make sure they knew where to build."

Castiel nodded again, demonstrating his comprehension, although it was barely there.

"Part of that was calling in Greg," Sam pointed at Dean. "He's a geophysicist, uh..." he paused as Castiel tilted his head again. "It, uh... doesn't matter... anyway, he did a survey of the area, and found that there was this underground passage. So we excavated it.. And uh..." he paused again, looking at Castiel nervously, "it's been a few months since we excavated the whole thing. At first, we just thought it was part of a passage. Most of it had collapsed in on itself. But it was a major find, in any case, so Jess came over to help us investigate it."

He flicked a quick look at her, when he thought she wasn't watching, but she looked back at him on the mention of her name.

"We've spent a lot of time down there the last few months. Most of the team has finished up. But we stayed to tidy stuff. Anyway, yesterday Greg was done there, messing with some thermal imaging technology he's got and he found the entrance to the room we found you in."

He looked to Dean, who ignored him.

"We managed to squeeze the door open enough to stick it through, and..."

"We saw you" Jessica said hollowly.

Castiel blinked.

"The uh... the technology. It recognizes variations in temperature on a surface. So... the gap in the wall where the entrance was, was a little warmer than the stone. And, once we got inside the room, you were warmer and you showed up on our screen."

Castiel nodded slowly. "I believe I understand."

He looked to Dean.

"Thank you, Greg."

Dean looked down rather than meet his gaze, even after Sam cleared his throat.

The silence, once again, invaded the space, until Jessica finally spoke.

"Cas... why were you down there?... Who did that to you?"

Castiel swallowed so audibly that the entire room looked to his throat, even Dean, who quickly flicked his eyes to the floor beside Castiel's foot, before drawing them slowly back to the tips of his own feet.

"I was...imprisoned. For the crime of animalism."

"Yeah... you said that before... in the cell. But... what is it?"

Sam 's brow was furrowed over his eyelids, but his expression was open and curious.

"I assume from your countenance you have had no acquaintance with any of my kind."

Sam pursed his lips before he answered. "No... actually lots of people think you don't exist..."

Castiel smiled at that. It meant his brothers and sisters were home or dead. They were free, at least, from the burden of the Fall and their existential suffering. The fact that he could feel his Father's touch on his shoulder persuaded him that the former was more likely – they were returned, forgiven and restored. For his mercy, Castiel was utterly grateful.

"Cas?"

Jessica spoke softly and rustled at her lap. From it, she extracted a small white sheet, which she held out tentatively towards Castiel. It was stiff, and unlike the materials Castiel had encountered previously, but soft enough that it drooped in her hand as she held it out to him.

He took it carefully and brought it to his own lap. Upon it was writing, in black and white, of a text type Castiel had never seen before. It was extraordinarily perfect, and each letter was formed in perfect coordination with one another. Those that were used more than once were formed with utter perfection to exact replicas of one another. In the corner of the page, however, was an image, the style of which Castiel was more familiar with. It reminded him of the texts he had once witnessed in the great human library of Bazaane, when he had lived amongst humans with his brothers and sisters, immediately after the Fall.

The image was a traumatic one, and not unlike the style of the time. It depicted an Angel, in animalistic form, laying siege to a small village. The villagers' faces were painted to represent utter horror and they reached out desperately to where one of their number was clutched, in pieces, in the claws of the Angel. The Angel was depicted as grinning widely at is howling audience, through bloody fangs, as it tore into a man who was, in the picture, still alive and writhing as he was devoured.

The image recalled too many foul memories for his liking.

Castiel winced and let the picture fall to the ground. Jessica made no move to recover it, but instead stuttered out at once "I-... I'm sorry. I-"

Castiel held up a hand to silence her. "There is no need to apologize, Jessica. I only need one moment."

He inhaled carefully and exhaled in as controlled a way as he could, trying to employ the human method of calming a nervousness pooling in his belly that he had learned early after the Fall. Slowly, he raised his eyes again to meet his audience.

"I was imprisoned for fear that I would become that kind of monster... and because I chose to protect a human."

When Jessica spoke, her voice was barely an exhale: "Dean?"

Castiel felt a twitch in one of his wings when she spoke the name, which repeated itself when the motion caught Dean's eyes and they flickered towards it. Self-conscious at the sudden attention, Castiel drew his wings across his body, covering the blanket that had been strewn across him to hide his near nakedness.

"Yes."

"Were you like that, Cas?"

"No."

"Then why-"'

She was silenced by the touch of Sam's hand on her shoulder.

Castiel turned his gaze to Sam.

"Keith, there is no cause for concern. If you desire, I will give you my account."

Even Dean's eyes flickered to his face at that and this time they held his gaze momentarily before deferring.

"What?"

Bobby's shock was enough to make him momentarily drop his guard.

Castiel took a moment to register the confusion: "I would speak with you of my history."

"No, Cas, he's..." Sam trailed off. "It doesn't matter. We'd... we'd love to hear your... story."

"I am glad." Castiel looked to Dean and kept his eyes on him as he spoke, even though Dean shivered a little under the gaze.

"But first...", he attempted a grin in what he hoped was a familiar and friendly expression, "if you would permit, I would clothe and clean myself. My... odor is no doubt distressing to you."

Both Sam and Jessica gave surprised little snorts, which made them look at one another with wide eyes, and Dean looked on at them in horror.

Castiel blinked, surprised to see their immediate change in demeanor at the most simple form of self-denigration. They froze under his gaze, but seemed still elated and suddenly at ease.

"Of... of course, Cas... let me... I''ll show you the shower. Jess, can you get some of my clothes, please?"

She appraised Castiel. "Greg's a better fit."

She looked at Dean hopefully but he confirmed his distaste with the idea with a single glare.

"Right, ok then..." She stood up and then caught Sam's eye "you're... ok with me going through your things?"

Sam blinked and looked away quickly. His reply was a little stammered, and a little too fast: "uh, yeah, sure. Third drawer down."

"Right." She flicked Sam a nervous little smile and tiptoed from the room.

Sam stood and Dean at once withdrew from the doorway and back into the kitchen, not bothering to acknowledge Castiel, Sam or Bobby.

Sam furrowed his brow in a way that Castiel assumed was meant to convey sympathy: "Sorry about Greg. He's just... I don't know really. He's an asshole."

The sound of Dean shuffling in the kitchen stopped momentarily. Castiel expected a kind of cocky reply, but none came, other than a painful silence until Sam gestured towards another doorway on the opposite side of the room from where Dean had situated himself. It was only when he crossed the threshold that he heard Dean recommence his movement.

...

Sam was embarrassed by their circumstance. That was clear. He'd given an explanation of the room quickly – it was a washroom, in essence, although of a far more sophisticated nature than Castiel had ever contemplated. There was a bath in the room, though it was far larger than Castiel had ever witnessed. Sam explained that humans generally preferred to use a "shower" device, which simulated a heavy kind of rainfall. He left Castiel with a variety of bottles, the scents of which were entirely overpowering, and described where they ought to be applied on his body. After he'd fiddled inside the small room contained within the room, within which the 'shower' operated, he'd excused himself quickly, with the promise he would await Castiel 'just outside the door' should he require anything at all.

The water was lukewarm, a pleasant temperature on Castiel's skin and of a sufficient pressure that the preliminary layers of dirt and grime were washed from him with no effort on his part. The secondary layers took longer, and required a vicious scraping of his nails along his skin in places to dislodge the muck that had accumulated there. Somewhere within it was the dried blood and skin that his body had been healed of – Castiel could smell it in the air.

The cleaning was surprisingly successful. His Grace had not seen fit to purge his skin of the filth that had accumulated upon it, but it had prevented absorption and discoloration by forming a kind of protective barrier between the grime he wore, and the skin underneath. With the effort of manually purifying himself, the crusted surface peeled away, leaving a layer of fresh skin underneath that looked to have ever been untouched by the vileness of Lilith's tomb. Even his wings were easily washed - his preening glands had remained in operation in some parts, keeping the feathers slick and preventing any dirt from attaching itself to their exterior. The more extreme parts of the wing were less well cared for, and parts had disintegrated. But the feathers hung loose on the wing as if they were prepared to molt – his Grace must have triggered the growing of new feathers where necessary.

His hair cleaned fairly easily too. Although it grew long upon his head and face, and was terrifically tangled, its filthiness was superficial only. With the application of Sam's balms and lotions, the muck was cleansed from his hair as easily as had it been placed there only moments ago. The tangles were more stubborn and he embarrassedly called Sam for assistance. Sam averted his eyes when he entered the room, passing Castiel a large soft cloth which he indicated embarrassedly Castiel should wrap around himself.

Sam was reluctant to let him carry out the task of shaving himself. After Castiel confessed he had never performed the action with the utensil provided, he was subjected to a number of cuts and nicks as Sam torturously dragged a bizarre looking device across his skin. The entire process was carried out in silence, with Sam dropping his gaze deferentially whenever Castiel turned his eyes towards him.

After, Jessica was summoned to them, where she commenced cutting away the matted clumps that had assembled at the back of Castiel's head. Unlike Sam, she was less awed by Castiel's silence, instead filling it with an explanation of the college, Stanford, that she had mentioned previously, and an account of the "feminist" movement, that had seen women acquire more equal in relation to their male counterparts that justified their place in an educational institution of such prominence.

When she was done, he reached out and patted her hand in thanks, both for cutting his hair and the account of the history of her gender. "Thank you, Jessica. I am glad – my Father never intended that the females would be subjugated. He loves you as purely and as strongly as he loves mankind."

She blushed a little at that, although she kept her hand very still under his touch until he withdrew. There was silence until she presented Castiel with a mirror, which far exceeded any he had seen in his time, for him to her admire her handiwork.

He was not fully restored yet. His face was scarred under the hair and oddly positioned in places where his jaw and been broken by Alastair's boot. One eye drooped slightly, and there were lines of weariness that Castiel had witnessed in human kind as they drew close to death. They were aesthetic burdens only, to presumably be restored by his Grace in due course as it became more limber and efficient and accustomed to subconscious use, but nonetheless, they were jarring to him in their foreignness.

Sam and Jessica watched in silence as he examined the rest of his body, noting the white scars where his Grace had purified his body of its most significant injuries, but had not yet properly realized full healing. He ran his fingers along them carefully, remembering each whip, bite or tear that had been inflicted upon him and detailing those that still marked him.

Jessica's voice was soft and hollow again: "Cas".

He met her eyes. "I will heal in due time, Jessica. It will be days only, if that. There is no cause for concern."

In his stomach though, he felt a brewing of distress that he had not been returned to Dean in a properly recognizable form. While the essence of his face was there, it was still broken and distorted, and a far cry from the features that Dean had worshipped. It wasn't that he wished to appear to Dean in the form that he had found pleasing. But it was an impediment to his intentions.

What mattered was _Dean, _and drawing him from the cage of the man Greg that awaited him in the kitchen. Castiel was certain Dean was within him, but to recover him from the shadow of having passed into Death, and having returned, was a task that Castiel could not be certain was within his power. Perhaps when his grace was rejuvenated, he could touch Dean's soul and trigger his memories – but at the rate of his Grace's recovery, and his complete inability to utilize it yet, he had no idea when such an event could occur.

As such, he had formulated an intention in the meantime to restore Dean's memory more practically. The fact that Dean had recovered him, however unconsciously, indicated that such memories were latent within him. Otherwise, how else, in a world so much more vast than the one he had inhabited in the past, could Dean have so particularized his location and returned to him? Again, he was uncertain of the efficacy of the strategy – but in any case, in order to utilize his Grace upon Dean he would require the trust of Greg, and his consent to the invasion of his mind and soul.

So Castiel intended to reach out to Dean with his words, and his account of their time together, in the hope of shattering whatever walls Death had assembled between them and restoring Dean to him once again. To do that, he required every trigger at his disposal, including his physical appearance, to brave the murkiness that would cloud Dean's thoughts and to pick away at the walls in his mind.

"Are you ok, Cas?"

Sam was speaking this time. Castiel caught himself from where he had been immersed in his thoughts, and looked to them both.

The word "ok" was unfamiliar, but through the tone of concern he understood its sentiment: "Yes, I apologize. Thank you for your assistance."

He stood slowly, taking care not to let his wings spread about in the room, and brush up against Sam or Jessica, instead pinning them flat to his back. "I am ready to speak with you, when you are willing."

Jessica grinned and gestured at the cloth wrapped around him. "Be good to get you dressed first, Cas. Here." She held out a pair of breeches to him in a soft blue fabric that was dense but smooth in texture, and a smaller white square that was far softer.

Sam's eyes bulged at the site of what she held in her hands.

"You got him underwear? From my...?"

Jessica looked up at Sam, flushing: "Yes... uh, sorry about that."

She looked away and but found herself staring at Castiel's bare chest, which then provoked her to become extremely interested in the contents of ceiling above her.

Sam flushed even more furiously, and similarly became unwaveringly fascinated by the floor beneath him.

Castiel held out the offending white garment in front of him.

"Jessica, what is this?"

She threw a glance at Sam, blushing even more furiously. "Um, Keith, can you...?"

Sam caught her gaze and swallowed. "Uh, yeah sure... uh, see you outside in a sec..."

She gave a twitchy kind of smile to Castiel and then left in a hurry, accidentally walking partially into the door on her way out.

When she had vacated and Sam had proceeded to exhale slowly and deliberately twice, he turned his attention to Castiel.

"Did you ever wear a loincloth, um, whenever you existed?"

Castiel nodded and turned his gaze back to the white garment in front of him.

"It's the same thing. Just a bit easier. You just, uh, stick your legs through these..." he gestured to two holes that resembled the leg holes of the breeches Castiel had worn previously. Suddenly the garment made sense.

He stopped Sam mid-demonstration of how the item was to be donned. "I understand. Thank you."

He proceeded to drop the cloth, while Sam averted his eyes again, and pulled on the underwear and breeches. He cleared his throat when he was assembled, and Sam flushed as he reached forwards to Castiel and demonstrated how to pull up a small bronze appendage that dangled at the front of the breeches. The movement made the breeches secure, although they were far too long upon Castiel's frame, which was somewhat smaller than Sam's bulk. Nonetheless, he smiled at Sam appreciatively and turned his gaze to a shirt that Sam held in his hands.

They both met one another's eyes after contemplating it for a few moments. "I guess we could cut some holes in the back of it?" Sam offered, sounding somewhat helpless.

"I did so with my own clothing, years ago." Castiel answered encouragingly, and Sam gave him a quick smile before reaching for the scissors that Jessica had used to cut Castiel's hair, and cutting two large panels into the back of the shirt.

He did so without measuring the span between Castiel's wings, so the shirt did not quite sit properly. Nonetheless, Sam seemed better assured once Castiel was properly covered and surveyed his handiwork with a look of pride. Castiel smiled again to buffer his growing confidence and allowed Sam to lead him back to the room where he was awaited by Bobby.

Dean appeared to not have moved from the kitchen, but it seemed Jessica had joined him and there and they were carrying out a hushed conversation.

Upon his arrival into the room, however, the conversation ceased immediately, and Jessica returned to the doorway where Dean had stood before.

"Cas, are you hungry? I'm sorry, we weren't sure if..."

He smiled at her, determined to encourage her confidence with him as he had with Sam. "No, I thank you Jessica, but I have no need to eat at present." His Grace, immovable as it was, had seen fit to attend to his hunger and thirst.

"Right. Do you mind if we just...?"

"No. Please, satiate yourselves."

She smiled nervously and returned to the kitchen where she returned moments later with a few slices of what appeared to be perfectly square white bread and a bowl of fruit. It went ignored by the party as they sat before him, on their own seat once more and eagerly awaited his speaking.

Dean, however, refused to remove himself from the kitchen. Jessica caught the flicker of his gaze to the room, and moved herself forwards on the seat: "I could get him, if you..."

He smiled at her. "Do not worry, Jessica. I am happy to proceed."

Dean was listening, even if he hid himself from Castiel. That was all that mattered.

And so he began...


	4. But Dare Not Cry

**CHAPTER THREE**

**1424**

The light of dawn had only breached the window for a moment before Castiel was stirring. He was curled up in his nest – a tangle of rough cloths, furs and sheets assembled unceremoniously in the corner of the small cottage which he inhabited. His wings were folded around his body, which he had assembled into a soft ball in the nest's centre, wrapped in on himself to keep the night's warmth close to his naked skin.

The dawn marked the beginning of his day, Castiel knew. So it had always been. Years of habit and isolation had attuned his senses to the vicissitudes of his environment – he was well-practiced in its routine. As long as he had called this place home, Castiel had awoken with the other organisms of the surrounding forest, and joined them in their morning chorus and the flurry of activity that followed. Work was the sole aspiration of the daylight hours, for the night was a dangerous time – an audible presence in the dark forest was suicide.

Routine was a necessity to Castiel, just like the forest's other inhabitants. Routine meant resources, and resources meant survival. The days were growing shorter, and the nights longer. He had sensed the cooling in the air, and its dryness. There was no alternative, but for vigorous and consuming preparation.

But this morning was unlike the others. Castiel did not wish to leave his nest, for he had barely slept the night before. Several hours before dawn, he had been awoken by a vicious dream and he had never properly recovered enough to revisit sleep.

Dreams themselves were not new to him - he'd long since adjusted to their strangeness, like all other aspects of humanity.

Most often, he dreamed of what consumed his day – the chatter of the forest, the rustle of the nearby stream and the warmth of the afternoon sun across his wings as he lay in quiet contemplation. He'd dreamed of other things too, but they were less frequent. Another presence, a warm hand to hold, a smile and the sound of animated chatter. Sometimes it was his brothers - long since lost – and other times it was faceless, but a comfort all the same. He'd dreamed of flights across the landscapes he had taken years ago – seeing great mountains and coasts, dark forests and the brightness and vibrancy of human cities. He'd dreamed of memories that had never occurred – moments with his lost brothers and sisters – sharing his forest with them and its delights. He'd even lived through being woken at night, drenched with sweat and shaking, remembering the haunted, deadened eyes the others right before their grace was extinguished and before him they turned animal.

All those dreams, he had accepted. He accepted them as part of his demi-human state. He had learned to live with them, and distinguish them from the truth of waking.

But the dreams of last night were novel, and terrifying. He had awoken with horror at first, and had sought desperately about himself for escape, until his eyes had adjusted and he had been met with relief at the sight of his familiar home. It sent the memory of the dream away into the recesses of his mind, where it was safer kept.

Still, he had been unable to sleep since, and it aggravated him. Winter was coming, and his preparations were all-consuming. He had to protect his home from the cold, and gather supplies for the months in which food would be scarce. But without proper rest, his limbs were stiff and his mood was sour. He had come to find the pleasure in sleep, and to be deprived of it, when he had so much to do, was infuriating.

Glumly, he let his first wing stretch out and up behind his body. It shivered as the muscles stretched after hours of stagnancy. The combined effort and relief of that movement made him emit a small groan – even in the years without companionship, he had not quite shaken the impulse to speak, or make some kind of noise on occasion. Largely, Castiel imagined such sounds fulfilled the purpose of keeping himself company, for he did not envisage conversation as part of his immediate (or even distant) future, so there was no utility in preserving the power of speech.

When he eventually emerged from his nest, the surface of his skin startled at its icy temperature, prickling in goosebumps along his arms, legs and chest. His wings were of sufficient warmth during the night, but they were of no use during the day, when they stayed folded at his back. For that purpose, Castiel kept a small supply of human clothes that he had acquired years ago, when he had fought for the humans that travelled the roads. They were old, tattered and weathered. When they exhausted their utility, he would replace them. But that requirement arose infrequently, and less so since he had stopped frequenting the Road.

He slid into them wearily, and fitted the panels which he had cut into his shirt around the shape of his wings. It was an exercise requiring some dexterity, but Castiel had long since acquired the skill and secured the shirt quickly and without ceremony.

The tasks of his day loomed ahead of him, and he started at the realization that the sensation of "looming" was new - an offset of the disturbance last night's dream had caused, he supposed. Castiel let his body a small shiver before he pushed the memory to the back of his mind. There were tasks to be completed, and with the days shortening, he had to be proactive. Thoughts of looming were of no assistance when there was work to be done.

The sun had risen over the horizon by the time Castiel had relieved himself and fed. His first task, as always, was to tend to the vegetable garden he kept behind his home. It was a fairly tiny plot – for it only had to service his minimal needs. Still, Castiel was proud of it, and he had done well this year – with minimal losses. His crops were almost ripe, which pleased him. He would be able to harvest them in a few days, before the winter took hold and rendered the plot unusable. They would tide him over well until spring.

When his tending was completed, he turned to the day's gathering. There were a few sites in the forest that required visits and they were spread out distantly from one another in the dark mass of trees.

Castiel's favorite part of the day was flying from one gathering spot to another. He kept his flight patterns low and close to the treetops, almost skimming them on occasion. It wasn't that he feared being seen by humans – there hadn't been one in the vicinity of his home for twenty years, as far as he was aware. But he feared alerting the other angelic inhabitants of the forest. Even though, after all this time, they were largely tame to his presence, during the day Castiel preferred to keep his existence quiet and unobtrusive. Encounters with his former brothers and sisters were painful for him, and often came at great emotional inconvenience.

Visiting his gathering sites took a few hours – he collected hazelnuts from a favorite tree at the north point of the forest, and gathered blackberries from some bushes on his way home. His routine was slightly interrupted when he sighted a fox on his return journey. He stalked the creature on the ground, before he was able to catch it unawares and kill it painlessly – as was his way. When its neck hung limp in his hands, he held it to him and stroked its fur – "I am sorry, brother. I thank you."

It was midday when he returned home. He deposited his findings inside and prepared the fox. The meat was hung to dry, also to add to his winter stores. He hung the pelt too. It would make a warm addition to his nest when the cold arrived.

The morning's necessaries done with, he took the opportunity to bathe in the river which ran in the forest around ten minutes' walk from his home, across a well worn, albeit somewhat overgrown path that had likely once serviced several families, or even a village, the remnants of which otherwise long since decayed. Once properly cleansed, he lay in the sun, complacently grooming his feathers and allowing them to bristle with pleasure at the faint warmth of the sun's rays. He left his clothes to dry beside him.

The relaxation was welcome after his morning's efforts and he entered a stupor momentarily. In that moment of vulnerability, last night's dream entered his consciousness with an evil veracity and at its snaking its first finger into his mind, he jerked up, breathing harshly. Within moments it was subdued. It was not time to think of it yet, he decided. The day's tasks were not yet complete.

The late afternoon was occupied with miscellaneous activities. He surveyed his house for signs of damage – there were a few leaks to be repaired and the chimney was jammed. After, he went through his stores and noted what he would need to complete his winter inventory. The nuts and fox would do well, but he was short on other necessities, like flour. He sighed when he realized that. He would most certainly need to make a raid on a trader's carriage in the next month. The thought displeased him – the raids were difficult and dangerous. More than once, despite his strength, he had been caught by the swipe of a blade. Without his Grace to heal him, recovery was a long and overwrought process. This close to winter, with so much preparation still to do, he couldn't afford to be out of commission. Still, a raid was necessary. He would just have to ensure he took extra precautions to avoid injury.

The setting sun marked the end of Castiel's day. He would be house-bound for the night, as always. Just as the dawn awoke the forest, the moonlight awoke his brothers and sisters. They were loudest in the early evening, and their chorus of screeches and howls was painful, not just in pitch, to Castiel's ears.

Settled at his table (ears stubbornly closed to the evening choir), with the berries and some boiled vegetables before him, he was finally free to revisit last night's events. The dream had been unusual, and Castiel was unsure what to make of it. Disturbing dreams were not usually distressing to him - not after all this time. So his being unsettled was a warrant for concern. And his plan for the evening was to understand why he felt the way he did, and rectify it immediately.

The dream had started like most of his others. He lived through prosaic tasks– mostly those that occupied his day today. There were a few special tasks too – he cut some firewood, rearranged his nest and even took a flight purely for recreation. Then the dream gathered momentum, but the days repeated over and over. He lived through years. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Then it stopped and that was when the strangeness had commenced. He visualized what he dreamed in his mind's eye.

_He was tending to his vegetable garden when a shadow fell across the ground. He turned to see a group of his brothers and sisters, standing solemnly before him in a silent, mournful gathering. Their wings drooped onto the ground and their heads were bowed, as though in prayer. He could not see their eyes, so he could not recognize their former selves in them. But he felt a pull in his chest all the same, wishing he could rescue them from their torment._

_The largest of his family raised its head and met Castiel's eyes. He searched its face, trying to discern who stood before him. But before he could certain, the creature opened its mouth and screeched. The screech was inhuman, as always. The same blood-curdling shriek that Castiel tried to hide from every night. There was no sense in it – no resemblance to the language it once knew. There was only pain and anger and regret. And it turned Castiel's stomach to rot. _

_Slowly, his brothers and sisters joined the refrain. Their pained whines were agony to Castiel, worse than he had ever heard before, and he fell to his knees, whimpering and clutching at his ears. "Please! Please!" he tried to shout over their chorus "My brothers and sisters – I am sorry – I do not know how to help you! Please! Please stop!" But they did not stop. Their cries became louder and shriller. Castiel could hear them resonating in his very bones. His eardrums burst and blood coursed down his neck. But still, he was not relieved. The cries seared through his head, into his mind and turned red and angry behind his eyes. And then he heard, through the calls, a shadow of speech. It was a voice he knew, but he could not discern its owner through the pain. "Oh brother, you are a fool." _

_He tried to cry out, for the pain of the voice was almost ripping him apart – he could feel his skin straining with the swell of it through his body. Please, please stop. Through the agony, he heard the shadow of other voices through the screaming – there was laughter. His brothers and sisters, they ridiculed him, through their mouths of jagged, broken and yellow teeth. They, the disgusting creatures that stood before him, mocked him._

"_Please leave me! I cannot face the darkness! Not yet!" The laughter amplified and the voice spoke again – "Castiel, you are already in darkness."_

"_No! No! PLEASE!" He's tried to cry to them – to try and make them remember their love for him. He was their brother and they could not wish him harm. Somewhere, they must know that. But his screams went unanswered and slowly he became aware of the darkness. It pulsed across his body and twisted around his wrists and ankles. He tried fruitlessly to shake it off, but it moved under his very skin – he could feel it tearing through the muscles and sinews below the surface. It ascended, until it twisted around his neck, cutting off his scream and throttling him. _

"_Pl- ease!" he choked out, raising his head to try one last time to convince his brothers and sisters. They stopped shrieking and they stared at him mournfully. Their claws hung at their sides, unmoving. It dawned on Castiel – it is not they who controlled this beast. It was not they who wished him harm._

_Tears streamed down his face as he struggled against his bonds and his chest burned. The pain of the cries was gone, but it was replaced by fear. Fear that this was the end for Castiel – his brothers and sisters awaited him to become one of their number. They came to see his funeral. His Grace was gone._

_But, at that thought, his grace pulsed in his chest. It was burning hot – too hot. It fought to liberate itself and to destroy the thing that choked him. But it could not break free. The darkness was too much for it to overcome._

_What is happening to me? Help me brothers! The words crossed his mind, but his swollen tongue could no longer let them out. Rather, he choked on it. His eyes were bulbous – he could feel them swelling in his eye sockets, fit to burst inside of him. The end was nigh. He knew his brothers and sisters heard them though, for they turned their gazes to him and the leader spokes once more. Not through a screech, but with a deep human voice._

"_Behold, Castiel the fool. He dies alone."_

Castiel threw up when he recalled that last line. He made it to his bucket, which was a relief, but the terror was uncontrolled, and he made a mess regardless. He had not remembered those words when the dream woke him that morning. They had emerged from the recesses of his mind as he carefully relived the dream. He wished he hadn't. The disturbance that it had caused, he knew, would deprive him of sleep tonight too.

Where this disturbing thought might have originated, he had no clue. Its meaning was unclear to him. Castiel feared more than anything that the day would come when he would join his brothers and sisters in their torment. When he too would become nothing more than a winged beast, driven by instinct and hatred and cruelty. But the dream had made it seem that there was more to be feared. There was something darker than the darkness that his family had fallen into. But what was that? Castiel knew it struck his whole body with terror. Every time the thought crossed his mind his body reacted with horror, jerking absurdly as though to run away from it. But it was not a terror he had ever been consciously aware of.

That was absurd, he concluded, that he should be so deranged by a fear he could not name. To succumb was a most ineffectual route. If the terror would manifest, it could be dealt with. But nameless, it was only a vicious gnawing that threatened his sanity. His sanity was precious, this fear was not. The only solution was to deprive it of an audience. He was decided, he would not address it again.

He did so that evening, contemplating instead the emergence of the stars in the night sky. He decided he liked the subtle flicker of the light he witnessed, as he gazed at them. It was animated – it gave them life. The thought was comforting as he stripped and curled into his nest for the evening. It was comforting as it accompanied him into sleep, nestled in the pleasant warmth of his wings. And when the dream awoke him with a start two hours later, the starlight was a delight until the first rays of dawn once again breached his windowsill and the forest stirred to life.

…

Dean awoke before dawn, as was his way. A lifetime of soldier's training meant his body was ever-prepared to rise early, and make the most of the day. And even within the citadel, when his duties were lesser, he found it hard to shake the habit. When he ignored the impulse, and tried to sleep later into the morning, his muscles ached and shivered for action until he was forced to acquiesce.

Waking was momentary, almost instantaneous. As soon as Dean properly registered where he was, he slipped carefully from the bed and retrieved the bundle of his discarded clothing from its base, which was crumpled and still damp with sweat from the night previously. He commenced dressing hurriedly, sparing only a moment to glance out the window - dawn would arrive in half an hour, and he had little time to prepare.

The light thuds he made as he wriggled into his breeches were enough to wake the woman in the bed, who stirred a little, with a soft sigh, before she opened her eyes and lazily trailed them down Dean's unclothed chest.

"Leaving so soon?" Despite the question, she didn't move from her position curled around the pillow beneath her, on her stomach, hair tangled at the back of her head.

Dean chuckled, but didn't answer, pulling his undershirt over his head and tucking it into his breeches, which he commenced lacing up loosely and roughly.

With a little whine, she moved herself, rolling over slowly onto her back and drawing back the sheet that covered her to reveal her naked upper body. It was an impressive one: "Can't I tempt you to stay another hour?"

Dean didn't cease with his activities, grabbing for his tunic, and pulling it around his shoulders, buttoning it at his chest. But he did cast his eye down her body appreciatively, with a salacious grin: "It's a tempting offer, but I'm needed elsewhere this morning."

"Pity." She pouted, and pulled the sheet back up over herself, curling up and exhaling a soft little sigh.

"You have no idea." He cast her a smirk before turning to pick up his belt, from which hung a scabbard and a small dagger and securing it at his waist.

"How long will you be away for?"

"Not long. Two to three weeks. We may be forced to take another route."

"Will it be dangerous?" Despite the seriousness of the question, she didn't remove her face from the crook of her elbow, which she had slung over her eyes.

He turned, smirking. "Why, do you fear for my life?"

"Hmph". She nestled back into the pillows and stretched her free arm languidly in the air. "Please. With a face like mine, there are plenty of soldiers who would only be too happy to keep me entertained in your absence."

He raised his eyebrows, although his smile was knowing. "Even so, I doubt they'll keep you as well-entertained as I do."

She dropped her arm from her eyes and smirked at him, purring out a response.

"Perhaps some will do it better."

"You think so?"

"Perhaps you ought to remind me of what I'll miss."

He grinned and moved over to the bed, crawling carefully upon over his hands and knees (avoiding her covered limbs) until they were face to face. Watching her carefully, he slid his hand slowly up the shape of her thigh, still covered by the sheet, and reached between her legs. When he made contact with what she hid beneath there, she let out a stifled, breathy moan. He smirked and lowered his face to hers, slipping his tongue into her waiting mouth. She kissed him back lazily and sighed contentedly as his weight pressed further down into her.

At that, he pulled away and turned his back to her, still grinning. "I thought so. You will miss me."

He didn't wait for a response before he turned to sit at the edge of the bed beside her, where he reached for his discarded boots and began hurriedly lacing them.

"Hardly. I may open my legs for you, Dean Winchester, but I'd never open my heart."

He chuckled again. Turning back to her and planting a soft kiss on her lips. "And for that, you are my favorite woman in Ardus."

"Oh, I'm sure I'm one of many favorites, dear. You can stop with the platitudes. You'll still be welcome to my bed when I return."

"The thought will keep me occupied every night on the road." He stood and brushed down his tunic, and ran a hand over his head to flatten the mussed hair there.

She threw a pillow at him.

"Hurry up and get out. Before anyone catches you."

He grinned and flashed a wink, as crossed the room and opened the door. "I'll bring you a present from Etrea."

"Please don't. You have terrible taste."

He picked up the pillow and threw it back. She grimaced and flopped back onto the bed. "Bye Lydia."

…

It wasn't difficult to sneak from her chambers. For one thing, Dean was well-accustomed to it. He and Lydia had been enjoying one another's company for over a year now, when Dean was in the city, and he knows the servants' routines well enough to skirt around their activities.

She wasn't the only woman that Dean visited when he was at home, but she was certainly the one he was with most frequently. It wasn't just that Dean liked her in bed. He liked that she made no mistake about why he sought her out, and she never asked too many questions. For her, it was about getting what she couldn't from her dullard husband, without compromising her status at the Empress' Court. For him, it was about the small comfort of human pleasure before he left for the Road. That was it. No obligations, no feelings, nothing unnecessary. And it worked well.

The streets were quiet as he made his way from the Empress' palace to the cottage he lived in, near the border of the Citadel. He had his own quarters in the Palace – they had been awarded to him when he joined the ranks of the Slayers' Order – but he preferred not to use them. Despite the Court's concerns, Dean didn't live in abject poverty. And when he was in Ardus, he preferred to spend what little time he had with his brother, rather than be compelled into joining the mind-numbing ceremonies that passed for entertainment within the palace walls.

It was light by the time he reached his home, and the city was stirring. He didn't bother about staying quiet as he opened the door. Sam was obliged at the Palace's libraries early for his work, and he liked to exercise before he went. He'd likely have been awake longer than Dean, even.

He burst into the living area with utmost disregard for ceremony, calling out loudly (in spite of their neighbors): "Darling, I'm home! What's for breakfast?"

He heard Sam rustling around in his bedroom, and he emerged a few moments later looking incredulous, and somewhat rumpled:

"Really, Dean? The night before you leave for the Road? Shouldn't you have been resting?"

"Sammy, these missions can take time. A man has needs. Every good soldier prepares."

Sam grimaced and looked away.

"Ugh Dean, I don't want the details. Not this early in the morning."

"You asked."

"Please, for the love of God, forget I did."

Sam took the kettle in between a pair of tongs and set it upon the coals of the fire, which still looked to be smoldering from the night previously.

"Sorry, Sammy. I'm just trying to do you a service. I didn't think you'd like it if I brought them back here. Don't scholars need silence to work?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Honestly, Dean. I concede. Forget I mentioned it. Let's just have breakfast."

Dean grinned and clicked his tongue, but said no more about it. Bless Sam and his virgin's heart.

They were settled at the table with bread stuffed with dates, and fresh fruit (Sam's choosing) when another figure emerged from Sam's room.

"Oh wonderful. _You're _here." Ruby, wearing the garb of a Princess' lady-in-waiting and a sour expression, stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

Dean raised his eyebrows and grinned at Sam. "See you took advantage of the fact I wasn't here last night, after all Sammy."

Sam opened his mouth to speak but Dean shushed him: "Sh sh sh. I don't want the details. Not this early in the morning." Grinning, he tore a huge bite of bread from the slice he was holding – that far exceeded the capacities of his mouth – and took delight in puffing out his cheeks and chewing it while grinning at Ruby. She curled her lip: "You're disgusting."

He just grinned more, deliberately letting his mouth drop open a little as he chewed and creating a more audible lip smack than necessary, and leaned back in his seat, clasping his hands together behind his head.

Sam cleared his throat. "Ruby came here for dinner last night. It was late by the time we were finished, and she fell asleep. I slept in your room."

"Mmmm hmmmm."

"Dean…"

"What?" Dean swallowed the bread with great and hurried effort. "She fell asleep _in your bed_ when it was too late to walk back to the Palace. Nothing suggestive about that at all."

"Dean!"

"I'm sure the many of the Princess' ladies-in-waiting are often left stranded in men's beds after-hours. Absolutely understandable. Downright chivalrous of you."

Ruby hissed and advanced on him. "I'll have you know I am fastidious in my obligations to the Princess!"

"You're the only one." Dean smirked, thinking of the way Lydia had melted under his touch that morning. That particular lady-in-waiting had hardly any virtue left to speak of, not that he was complaining. From what he understood from Lydia, Lilith's unmarried ladies spent their days singing, sewing, dancing and gossiping. After that kind of day, he couldn't blame them for needing something a little more entertaining, regardless of the Princess' insistence on the virginity of her unmarried maids.

"Sam!" Ruby stared his brother down. Sam shot a quick wary glance at Dean, and took her hand.

"Dean, stop. You know Ruby's not like that. This is going to be our last breakfast together in a while. Can we try to enjoy it?"

"I was. Baiting your lady is great sport."

"Dean…"

"Yeah, yeah, alright." He stood, taking another slice of bread, and an apple with him. "I've got to be at the gates soon anyway. Still lots to pack."

"You haven't even packed yet?!" Dean grinned at Sam obnoxiously again, and grabbed an extra slice of bread from the table, before walking briskly to his room. He could practically hear Ruby rolling her eyes as he left, and she didn't wait until he shut the door before she started reprimanding Sam in a furious whisper.

He shut the door behind him, glad of the opportunity to escape her wilting gaze for a few minutes. Back to the door and ears closed to Ruby's tantrum, he inhaled and exhaled carefully. He loved his brother, and he wished him every happiness, but God, did it have to be with that bitch? He'd hated Ruby from the moment he met her and she'd reciprocated in kind. Honestly, he didn't know what Sam saw in her. Sure, she was beautiful, sure - thick brown hair, huge brown eyes and plump lips – the picture of a perfect courtier. But her devotion to the Empress was mindless worship, and she was forever dragging Sam to events at court, away from Dean and the books that he had preferred before she had appeared.

The one part of going on the Road that he hated was leaving Sam, under her influence, with no one else to mediate. Sam wasn't made for the silly courtier's life. He had so much more to offer. But Ruby persisted in displaying him as a prize at every event necessary. In Dean's opinion, Sam's association with her brought far more embarrassment upon the family than his numerous associations with many finer ladies at court. Even if his father had never seen it that way.

Dean sighed, grabbing his saddlebag from its resting spot in the corner of his room and throwing in a few articles of clothing. In truth, he had been properly prepared for this trip for days. His packs were ready and waiting at the stables with his mare. Preparation was part of the routine – to psych himself up before leaving the protection of the Citadel. But he tried to hide his nervous planning from Sam, and acted a bravado and casualness that he didn't really feel. Sam never understood how truly terrified Dean was on the Road, and Dean didn't want him to. The thought of Sam anxious at home prevented him from operating effectively beyond the city walls, and he needed his wits about him if he wanted to return home.

He was done in minutes, but he waited out several more, staring blankly at the streets beyond his window, where traders were beginning to set up stalls in the streets. Steeling himself, he opened the door. Luckily Ruby had left the room.

He gave Sam a quick clap on the shoulder as he passed. "Come see me off?"

"Yeah, see you at the gates." Sam, still blushing from his scolding, didn't look up. It didn't matter. Ruby be damned, Dean knew Sam would be at the gates, regardless. He always was.

And with that Dean was out the door.

…

The stablehand had Dean's mare, Impala, saddled and waiting by the time he reached the stables, and his travelling kit laid out. Dean didn't wear armor for the Road. He found it inhibited movement too much in encounters. There were times when flight, not fight, was the best option. And he preferred not to be weighed down. Instead he wore a vest made of several layers of leather, branded with the Empress' colors of black and red, and the mark of the Slayers' Order, to reflect his higher status in Ardus' soldiers' ranks. The kit wasn't favored by many soldiers, offering only limited protection against the claws and bite of the Angels. At first, he'd been mocked for the get-up. That was before he became the third man (currently in service) in the citadel to have felled an Angel and earned the title of "Slayer". Now there was no more mocking, and the younger recruits had taken to ordering similar garb from Ardus' leatherworkers.

Dean's status as a member of the Order gave him significant standing amongst his peers. On any given trip on the Road, he was Captain. Everything was his call – the route they travelled, the number and identity of men taken, the provisions packed. It was an incredible responsibility, given the risk to life and limb posed beyond the city walls and Dean's limited experience. Soldiers were only permitted to leave the gates at age 18, and Dean felled his Angel at 21.

Dean had met the burden tremendously. He had the lowest soldier fatality rate of the three slayers and other assorted Captains, and soldiers-in-training clamored to join the ranks of his preferred accompaniment on the Road. It was a high honor, especially since Dean had only ever been responsible for the death of one Angel. Another of the Slayers – Alastair – had felled three in his service. But it was a reflection of their preferred methods, and Dean's general popularity.

Alastair was confrontational. He liked absolute destruction of the beasts that dared threaten their trading vehicles, even if it meant the loss of some soldiers in the process. It was rumored that he liked to defile those he felled. Dean knew for a fact he had taken the wings of one, for they were now worn by the Empress at Court for ceremonial occasions.

Dean, however, preferred to keep his teams intact, at the cost of speed and efficiency in trading. He favored quiet travel that avoided attracting Angel attention, even if it was slower. He had had his group leave the Road on several occasions, and hide in the forests until danger passed, rather than confronting it. Generally, he only engaged in conflict insofar as necessary. It wasn't that he didn't hate those sons of bitches that haunted the skies as much as Alastair did, but he cared about his men more.

The talk of the town was that either Dean or Alastair would be selected by the Princess as the city's leader, after her mother and father stood down. Balthazar, Ardus' third Slayer, was perceived as a less savory option – his open enjoyment of drink and women had eroded the public's confidence. In truth, Dean was every bit as bad in his penchant for both. But Balthazar was more visible in his vices. After his last mission, he'd performed a tightrope act on the walls surrounding the Princess' private garden. She had discovered him when had attempted a cartwheel, and fallen in her roses.

As of yet, Dean hadn't given much thought to how her choice would go. A selection as City leader usually entailed marriage, for the husband of the Princess (or Empress, as she would then become) would continue the sorceress's line. It hadn't always been the case that the two went hand-in-hand, but the past generations of Empress (for, mysteriously, the offspring of the sorceress' line was always female) had developed something of a custom. The citizens now referred to her selection of Lord Protector and her husband collectively as "her choice", and the official announcement of her decisions occurred at the same ceremony.

Dean wasn't adverse to the idea of marrying the Princess – she was plenty fine to look at, and the idea of leadership appealed to him. But Lilith was young, and there was no imperative yet to compete for her affections. So he was content to focus on his captaincy of the soldiers on missions, and preserve life where possible.

Once the stablehand had fitted Dean with his kit, he donned his weapons. A dagger at his waist, and another at his thigh; throwing knives at his ankles; a shield at his back and a sword at his belt. He waited patiently while the hand – Chuck – cinched the final strap across his chest.

When he was done, Dean slapped him on the shoulder once and gave him a nervous smile.

"May God watch over you, sir." Chuck's voice was reedy and uncertain, as though he still could not believe he was entitled to such proximity to Dean.

"Thank you, Chuck. I'll see you again soon." Chuck blushed and stepped back, head bowed, while Dean clicked his tongue and lead Impala from the stable, mounting her when he reached the Citadel's street.

Dean rode Impala down the cobbles to the city gate, where the wagons he and his men would accompany were waiting, along with his selected soldiers for the escort – fifteen in total. A small cluster of civilians were waiting too. They were those that had paid for safe passage between the cities. There were very few, as was to be expected. Many never left the city gates. Those that took the chance to travel with the soldiers did so out of desperation or foolishness – love, medical treatment or escape from bad debt were among the reasons usually prompting civilians to take the risk. Their carriage was protected with the same sigils that adorned the city walls. But the sigils did not always guarantee safe passage, and the travelers knew it. A few were shaking visibly.

Dean was greeted by his second-in-command, Rufus Turner, an older hunter, but one of the strongest in the Citadel's history. Although not a Slayer, the man was respected as though he were one, and he would be rewarded handsomely upon his retirement for his services, Dean was sure.

"Bad news. The scouts have reported back that the direct northern road is blocked. Angels everywhere."

Dean cursed. He hated last minute changes to plans. "Is it blocked before the Blue Range path? We could turn off there and circle back to Etrea."

"Yeah, it's blocked by the river."

"Damnit."

"The Gorge has been clear since Spring. It might be our safest route."

"From Angels, maybe, but with the rain it'll be flooded. I'm not going that far off course just to turn back."

"We could take the Eastern path from the Gorge? It sits higher on the Ranges."

"Balthazar's taken three loads through there in the past six months. And there was trouble on the last trip. It'll be busy."

Rufus sighed. "What do you say then, Captain? We're running out of options."

"Give me the map."

Rufus pulled a leather scroll from the satchel attached to his stallion and spread it out on the ground in front of him and Dean. They both crouched down to stare at it, while the rest of the group bustled around them, making last minute adjustments to packs, and taking inventory. Rufus traced a path with a finger and muttered to himself.

"We might have to call off this trip, Captain, if you're uncertain about the Gorge. I'm not seeing any other options."

"It's a guaranteed loss, Rufus. We're not doing it."

They fell into silence while Dean took in the contents of the map.

"What about the western path?"

Rufus traced the path with his finger. "To Rehin?"

"Yeah. There's an old trader's route that branches off it about three days in. It meets up with the Northern path on the eighth day. We'd add four extra days to our journey, but it should be quiet. It hasn't been used since we found the northern route."

Dean felt the weight of Rufus' gaze upon him, and the veiled uncertainty in the man's voice. "Are you sure it will be quiet?"

"There haven't been any reports off the Western path for two months, and the same at the top part of the northern path. There'll be a few days where we'll be blind, but that's better odds than the Gorge, don't you think?"

"At least we'll know what we're facing at the Gorge."

"If we didn't have travelers with us, I'd say the Gorge, but I'm not willing to risk it knowing there's activity. They'll hear, for certain. And this is our last trade before the winter. It has to be successful."

Rufus nodded curtly. He was a good second, knowing when to disagree, and when to accept his orders. He folded the map up perfunctorily, and slid it back into his satchel. Glancing up back at Dean, his gaze was caught by something behind him and he smirked a little.

"It seems you're required as an audience before we leave. I'll notify the squad of the route."

"Good. Thank you, Rufus."

Rufus chuckled and his eyes flickered over Dean's shoulder again. When Dean looked past him, he saw the same sight had caught the eyes of some of his group – Aidan and Creedy in particular, and they jostled and elbowed each other, grinning. Dean braced himself for the view, and carefully adjusted his vest before he turned. Despite the snickers, the sight that greeted him was unexpected.

The Princess Lilith, with her five ladies-in-waiting, stood patiently by the wagons. Lilith was charm and poise, and ramrod straight at the head of the little group. When he turned she gave a little nod of acknowledgment to indicate he should approach. Ruby, who had been delegated the back left position, grimaced as the horse she stood next to whickered and flicked its tail against her, so that the hair caught her across the mouth.

Casting a cautionary glance at his soldiers, who at once busied themselves with what were likely phantom tasks, Dean puffed his chest out and advanced, feigning confidence in light of his public audience. He didn't have the chance to greet the Princess formally, with a bow, before she called to him across the square.

"You honor our city with your courage, Slayer."

"In service to my Empress, who brings the greatest honor to Ardus." He bowed, fairly poorly, and heard Ruby snicker. "My life is at your service, Princess"

She smiled, lips closed but relaxed, and bowed her head. When he rose from the bow there was an awkward pause, and Dean swallowed audibly (for the square, it seemed, had suddenly gone quiet, and the milling citizens had not the manners to show deference for the exchange – they were staring openly). His eyes flickered to Lydia, who stood on the Princess' left, and Dean's right, directly behind her. Her face was implacable, but her eyes danced.

"Will you wear my favor when you serve our city?"

Dean faltered as he looked back to the Princess. "I… wear it in your colors, my Princess?" He gestured to the black and red emblem emblazoned across his chest on the leather vest.

She giggled, as did her maids (quickly looking at each other to make sure this was the acceptable response). That was, except for Ruby, who sneered.

"No, Slayer," Lilith trilled, smiling properly this time, revealing a set of perfect white teeth not possessed by any other woman in the kingdom aside from her mother: "I mean my personal favor. Would you wear it?"

He looked at Ruby quizzically, but she smirked and looked away. Lydia, on the Princess' other side, caught his gaze, and widened her eyes, nodding imperceptibly.

"Uh… yes. It would be an honor."

She smiled wider and stepped forward. Dean figured it was going to some sort of lady-trinket. Maybe a ring or a scarf. Whatever it was, he'd had to shove it into his saddlebag for safekeeping once on the Road. Woe betide to him should he lose something bestowed by the Princess herself.

However LIlith kept advancing, keeping her eyes locked on his, until her face was a mere inch from Dean's own and he could smell breath. It smelt like lilacs. She was small and Dean had to duck his head to look at her. As he did, she turned her head ever so slightly to his right and brushed a soft kiss against his jaw line.

Dean froze, completely unaware of the requirements of social decorum at that moment (he had never been much for them, but as far as he was aware, this kind of proximity to the Princess wasn't detailed in the rule book).

He felt her smile against his cheek and she leaned forward further to whisper in his ear: "Bring my favor back to me, Dean, when you return." Her breath made his cheek tingle, and he restrained the urge it to run his fingernails across the itch.

It would have only been a second, but with her proximity, time seemed to pass slowly and awkwardly, and Dean's better judgment overcame him. He felt his mouth twitch and then the words tumbled out: "Heh… yeah. Sure…"

She withdrew gracefully, smiling as though he'd whispered back the proper flirtatious response. There was a peal of giggling from behind her again, and she dropped her gaze, as though embarrassed, though there was no hint of a blush on her cheeks.

"Stay safe, Slayer."

"My Princess." He bowed, this time a little better and deeper, and by the time he righted himself she had turned and was _sashaying _(for there was no other word for it) back to her maids, whose eyes were wide with excitement at the promise of secrets to be shared later. Dean was utterly certain every aspect of his behavior would be deconstructed with hyperactive frivolity, and perhaps some venom on Ruby's part. Oh, how torn she would be now that Dean was seemingly in the Princess' favor. The thought was enough to buoy him, even as he stood in front of the gates to the Road, and he flicked a smirk at her as he whirled and departed for his men. Her responding glower would keep him warm in the cold nights to come.

Aiden and Creedy, now accompanied by Ezra, Victor and Isaac, had gathered by the wagon during the duration of the conversation. Dean steadied himself to bark out orders and save face, but he was interrupted by a far more authoritative yell than he would have been able to summon, still feeling embarrassed from the eyes of the City upon him.

"What ya idjits doin'? Don't y'all have somewhere to be this mornin'?"

The group started and at once bustled back to their tasks, except for Rufus who stepped forward and clapped the man who had uttered the instruction on the back.

"We're almost ready to go, Bobby."

"Better be," Bobby grumbled, shrugging off the touch, "got other things to do today besides cater for you wallflowers."

The men, still within earshot, hung their heads and busied themselves more properly with their tasks. Dean grinned at their deference and mimicked Rufus in advancing on the man and clapping him on the shoulder too.

This time Bobby appeared less displeased with the gesture, although he was still terse.

"I mean it, boy. No special favors. You want the gates open before mid-mornin', that's when they're openin'. And if you're not ready, you can wait here for the next load."

"Yessir." Dean whistled one high note, and Impala whickered and walked to him. He took hold of her reigns and grinned as he saw a little affection in Bobby's eyes when he reached forward and patted the horse brusquely on the nose. "See? Ready to go."

Bobby grumbled again and shoved his hands back in the pockets of his breeches.

"You take care of 'em. And you stay safe."

"You know I will."

Bobby nodded gruffly, and hit Dean on the arm with more force than necessary. "Gates open in five minutes. Be ready."

Dean nodded curtly, and mounted Impala as soon as Bobby's back was turned. He watched as the man limped back to the gates, where a few utterly terrified squires wilted under his stern instructions. It would be their job to swing the gates open, leaving the city vulnerable momentarily to infiltration. Since Bobby's retirement from the Road and his installation as City Watchman, there had never been a breach of the City's walls upon entry or exit. Nor had the sigils that decorated the Citadel's walls and protected its inhabitants from the Angels been allowed to peel or fester under the light on the sun on the City walls. Bobby was one of the few who'd managed to retire from the Road, and one of fewer still who were able to properly leave it behind. As such, he'd been installed as commander of Ardus' watchtower, and he lead a group of perpetually terrified boys who hadn't made the cut for soldier's training, in manning the towers and policing the city gates. Bobby was one of only two with access to the keys that unlocked the Citadel's gates, and he was required to certify new entrants. In addition, he alone took on the job of monitoring the sigils that decorated the city walls, ensuring that the weather did not erode them to such an extent that the City was placed in peril. He was the only non-soldier to breach the City boundary, and would spend hours every month beyond the wall, protecting the city from threats with his paintbrush, while archers watched carefully from the ramparts for Angelus.

The squad was assembled at the gates, and lined up ready to leave when Sam finally appeared. It was their way. Other soldiers had lovers and family who might wait with them for several hours as they prepared for the Road, and would watch the Wall every day until they returned. They would wait until they were inevitably left to cry here, when their loved ones did not return.

Dean preferred the send-off to be less dramatic, ever clinging to the act of certainty that he would return home again. They played at it now, with Sam merely walking up beside his mare and staring at the waiting gates.

"How long?"

Dean kept his eyes on the gates, swallowing carefully and keeping his breathing even in anticipation of the panic that would wash over them when he first returned to the Road.

"Two weeks. Three at most."

"You sure?"

"Have to. The weather'll get worse if we wait, and we'll have to take Winter in Etrea."

Sam nodded curtly, and idly fingered at the mare's mane.

"Keep well."

Dean nodded and quirked a smile at his younger brother.

"Same to you."

Sam grinned feebly back at him.

"My room is off limits by the way."

"What?"

"To your lady. If she's going to 'fall asleep' in our house again, she better damn be doing it in your bed." Dean playfully emphasized the words with a grin, to let Sam know it was a joke – mostly.

"Dean!" Sam spluttered but he was interrupted by Bobby's yell across the square: "Standby!"

There was a massive creak as the gates were pulled forward, the boys heaving on the ropes and chanting for each tug. As gates were slowly opened the enormity of the road was revealed to Dean. He didn't wait for the gates to fully open to advance – he was to lead the way and the longer he waited, the more time his men would have to stew in nervousness, and the longer he left the city vulnerable. He clicked his tongue and nudged Impala forward, casting a quick glance back to Sam: "see you soon."

Sam smiled faintly and hung his head after Dean had turned his back. He didn't look back as the Gates were closed behind him. This was no farewell.

…

It took Castiel around three days to lose his mind. The endless silence of his home began to press on him and squeeze around him, constricting his organs and pushing the air from his lungs. At one point, he forgot how to breathe, and at another he almost dropped to the ground mid-flight. Sometimes, he'd be overcome with shivering. But it wasn't from the cold. No number of furs could stave it off.

He left on the fourth day. He took his bow, and two knives, as well as a small satchel with a waterskin and some dried meat. The rest he left for his brothers and sisters, in the spot where they were accustomed to retrieving the kills that he left for them – on a post he had erected around one mile into the woods. Wrapped in his warmest fur – for he had no idea how long he would be gone and only then did he cast his eye once around his small home. It felt empty already, even prior to his intended absence.

That was the final push – all it took. Ten minutes later, he was flying low over the forest, with nothing but a grim expression and the hope that whatever he was doing, it would dispel the sense of urgency that spread roots throughout his belly, and grew outwards, until he felt like it would pierce his skin and strangle him from the outside.

…

**2013**

Castiel spoke until the entire room slept. They had remained wide-eyed as he had detailed the Fall, and attentive, although entirely silent as he described his life in the forest and Dean's in the Citadel. Slowly though, and against their will, they had dropped off, their eyes flickering with the effort of holding open their weight until the last second when Castiel had heard their breathing change and witnessed their limbs drop into relaxation.

Bobby's head rested precariously on his fist, which was balanced upon his elbow upon the edge of the seat. Sam and Jessica, by contrast, had fallen asleep against one another – Sam angled towards the other edge of the seat, and Jessica leaning against his side, with her head dropping onto his shoulder.

Castiel watched them for a long time, entirely aware that their steady breathing was not replicated in the kitchen, where Dean still waited. Even from the sitting room, Castiel could hear the thud of his heart, at a slightly accelerated rate that indicated he was still in a position of full consciousness.

It might have been several hours before Castiel found the nerve to call upon him. He had hoped Dean would approach him, even if it were to leave, and retire to his own lodgings (for the scent here indicated that only Sam was a resident here). Still, even after the others had long since fallen asleep, there was no sound of movement at all from the kitchen to indicate that Dean intended to vacate the area.

"Greg."

Castiel kept his voice soft and low, so as to avoid waking the sleeping three, but loud enough that he was sure that Dean, being conscious and obviously alert, would hear it. He was rewarded by the sound of a very quiet intake of breath, but no more from the area. When there was no other response for some time, he spoke again.

"Greg, I know you're awake."

The sound of Dean's heart thudding became more discernible, but there was no indication of movement from the kitchen area. Eventually Castiel whispered out into the darkness, once last time.

"Greg, I'm going to return to the shower room for a few moments. Please do not be alarmed at the sound of my movement."

There was no response from the kitchen. Slowly, and carefully to avoid letting his wings brush the sleeping companions, he inched his way through the darkness to the room. He made sure to shut the door with an audible enough click that it would be heard by Dean in the kitchen. Within a minute, he heard the sound of a scrape from the kitchen and the door to the sitting room opening and closing.

When he returned to the kitchen, he knew what he expected to see, although it did not stopper the sense of disappointment. Dean was gone.


	5. Swallow Your Voice

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**2013**

Castiel remained awake during the night, his weak Grace finding the energy to stopper the human sensation of tiredness and the creep of sleepfulness from infiltrating his system. The party slept soundly, aside from the intermittent snores of Bobby from the left side of the couch. Over the course of the night, Sam and Jessica became a little more intertwined, with Sam's arm finding its way around her shoulders, and her nuzzling her cheek into his chest. When they began to shiver in the early hours of the morning, Castiel located some blankets from the sleeping quarters that were situated near the shower room, and draped them across their bodies, which calmed their light quaking.

The earlier part of the morning he spent outside, his wings spread at their full span, allowing them the luxury of a few gusts of nighttime air through their feathers. The sensation was a warming one, despite the low temperature, and Castiel found himself giving a small smile at the feeling of contact, however insignificant, against his person. The soft touches of the wind reminded him of the feel of Dean's trembling fingers against his wings, as they ghosted through his feathers in tentative and nervous exploration, and the thought ignited memories that kept him warm and tingling until just before dawn.

He abandoned the activity when sunlight breached the horizon and he witnessed the first stirrings of the modern world around him. Knowing from Sam and Jessica's explanations in the day previously that his presence would be considered bizarre and frightening (maybe even more so than in his time), he made sure to return indoors before he was seen. The deprivation of the sun's rays was disappointing to him, however, so he positioned himself on the ground of the sitting room, with his wings spread, to allow the beams to filter through the glass and onto his feathers, invigorating him with their warm caress.

Bobby was the first to stir. When he caught sight of Jessica and Sam's circumstance he rolled his eyes and grumbled, casting a knowing look at Castiel. Castiel smiled at being brought in on the joke, but he looked away quickly, uncertain of how to extend the camaraderie. When Bobby stood, he made little care to do so without disturbing his sleeping companions, instead dragging the blanket that Castiel had laid across them with him, which triggered their waking. They fumbled momentarily, wiping against bleary eyes and glaring at Bobby, before they realized the intimacy of their circumstance and sprung apart, blushing again. Jessica raced into the kitchen almost immediately, and Sam excused himself quickly to the shower room almost simultaneously. Bobby met Cas full in the eyes again, and groused, in his unfamiliar language but with a familiar lazy twang: "Those idjits are like that all the time."

There was a small slam in the kitchen in response.

Bobby ignored it and shuffled towards the rom. A few moments later, Castiel heard a few clicks and the sound of running water. He stayed where he was until Bobby returned, blinking blearily around the room: "where's Greg?"

Castiel didn't bother to look up from where he was seated: "he left, early this morning."

Bobby huffed and then coughed, the effort displacing phlegm in his lungs audibly. "Don't worry about him. He's an idjit."

Castiel pursed his lips and looked away, while Bobby rubbed at his beard absently. He huffed for a few seconds and then busied himself locating his hat behind the seat, which he had lost over the course of the night.

A higher voice broke the silence: "Cas?"

Jessica peered out from the kitchen: "did you sleep well?"

"I did not sleep."

"Oh." She paused, looking worriedly at the floor where the blanket Castiel had covered them with lay rumpled.

"I'm sorry that we fell asleep. I didn't even..."

Castiel smiled to silence her.

"I understand, Jessica. There is no need to apologize. I am happy to continue, if you wish, when you have completed your necessary activities."

She grinned properly at him, far less inhibited than mere moments before, and he was treated to the sight of her even white teeth that reminded him, uncomfortably of Lilith's. There was no gleam of a promise, however, that she intended to bite with them, and so the terrifying comparison disintegrated as quickly as it had arisen. "That's be great, Cas. Or..." she paused, suddenly thoughtful, "is Castiel more appropriate? I mean..."

"I prefer Cas." Castiel smiled again at her, and let his wings shuffle a little on the floor, stretching them out to avoid their becoming irritated with stagnancy. His Grace would usually remedy such troubles, but it was still uncooperative and inconsistent in its efforts and he had not yet managed to manipulate it into carrying such tasks out subconsciously.

When Jessica caught sight the feathers in the light, her mouth dropped open in a small "O". "Wow Cas, they're magnificent." Castiel blinked and said nothing, but he felt them give a small twitch and preen at the compliment – it was a sensation and movement that catapulted him momentarily into a fond memory,

She inched closer, letting her eyes run across their expanse almost hungrily, but with an intellectual rather than physical fascination. Her hand even commenced to reached out a little before she caught herself, and blushed. "Sorry."

Castiel smiled and didn't answer, and she withdrew bashfully and blushing to the kitchen once again, with a similar abruptness to earlier.

Bobby ignored them both and limped across the sitting room and through the doorway, where he commenced hammering on the door to the shower room. "Hurry up, Keith. You're not the only one who needs to take a piss!"

Moments later, Sam stumbled embarrassedly back into the sitting room, where he visibly relaxed when it was evident Jessica was out of sight.

"Good morning,... Keith", Castiel momentarily stumbled over the name before he recovered himself, although Sam did not appear to notice. Instead, he hurriedly brushed down his tangled hair and grinned at Castiel.

"Good morning Cas... or Castiel now?"

"I prefer Cas."

"Oh... good. Uh, how did you sleep?"

Bobby snorted from the shower room. Sam looked back, brow furrowing. When he turned back to Castiel, his expression was quizzical: "Did...?"

Castiel made no response, and Sam looked down at his feet, before he shrugged his shoulders a few times and shook his head quickly, as if jolting himself out of the remnants of his sleep.

"We... uh... are we hearing more about your story today?"

Castiel nodded and let his wings stretch in the sun again. "Yes, when you are prepared, and when Greg has returned."

Sam's eyes fell on Castiel's wings, but unlike Jessica he made no comment. The same fascination was there, however, and Castiel was sure he would be a topic of their discussion later. There was an awkward silence until Bobby returned to the sitting room, the sound of running water and an aggressive kind of exhale mixed with a breathy kind of scream and a loud rattle following him. When Castiel looked up in shock, Bobby guffawed: "Nothin' to worry about Cas. The plumbing here is shit."

Castiel nodded curtly and looked back to the window, where he could now witness wagons similar to that in which he had found himself in yesterday, passing on a grey kind of road before him. He watched them with a kind of casual fascination, but no great curiosity. Even from his position inside the home, he could smell the mixture of fuels that were used to power them. They were concentrated and bizarre scents, but not outside his field of recognition. Like the "waves", Sam had spoken of yesterday, he understood that humans had found a way to harness another aspect of their natural world, this time for the purposes of transportation. It was impressive, and he allowed himself a small private grin, which was really no more than a twitch of the upper left corner of his lip.

Sam turned to Bobby and spoke lower: "Greg left."

"Yeah? What else is new?"

Sam spluttered. "He's kinda freaked out, Mike!"

"He's an idjit. Leave him be. If he wants to miss an audience with an Angel of the Lord, let him. I'm not his mother."

Sam breathed out in an exasperated way and turned to the kitchen, where there was a clattering sound as Jessica moved about within it.

Castiel cleared his throat to attract their attention: "Is Greg often so hostile?"

Sam turned on the spot to meet Castiel's gaze and pursed his lips before he responded: "He's... he's kind of a messed up guy, Cas. Don't take it personally."

Castiel felt a sharp stab of urgency in his gut and the sombre tone in Sam's voice, but he forced his voice to remain casually neutral, remembering the tactic having been employed by Dean once during their time together: "what does 'messed up' mean?"

"Uh..." Sam looked imploringly to Bobby, who rolled his eyes before he answered for Sam: "He's got some problems. Likes his drink. We don't know more than that. Don't wanna, to be honest."

"You are... not well acquainted, then?"

Bobby rolled his eyes again and turned away. Sam took the answer: "Barely know the guy. One of the engineers on the team investigating the area where we found you knows him. He keeps to himself. Yesterday in the tunnels was the most energetic I've ever seen him in months. He might've left town. I think he's got some family problems."

Castiel nodded slowly.

"Can you contact him please?"

Sam's eyebrows twitched and he cocked his head in a silent question.

"With your phone," Castiel supplied, and he dropped his gaze meaningfully to the bulge in Sam's pocket.

Sam blushed and stuttered for a moment, looking at Castiel incredulously, before his fingers twitched over the phone contained there and he visibly relaxed: "Why?"

"I would like him to be present, before I continue. Please."

Sam took several moments to respond, during which time his fingers twisted awkwardly at his sides.

"Uh... yeah, sure Cas. Anything you'd like."

He withdrew the device from his breeches slowly and pressed a few of the numbered circles. From the floor, Castiel heard the trill of a few notes emit from the top end of the device and the ring of the radio waves emanating throughout the room.

The notes repeated for some time before the sound changed, and Dean's voice was audible across the line: "Yeah?"

"Greg, where are you?"

"What does it matter?"

"Cas... he's asking for you."

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"Why?" Dean's voice was gruff and low, almost as if he understood at that moment that Castiel could hear him, and was attempting to avoid it being so.

"Uh,..." Sam glanced at Castiel, seeking counsel. Castiel widened his eyes and dropped his gaze back to the ground. He knew he was being entirely unhelpful, but the gruff reminder of Dean's aggression towards him was enough to stun him back into silence. Even if it hadn't, Castiel didn't yet have a plausible explanation to express a fascination with Dean that would not drive him further away.

"I don't know, man. But... he wants you to be here."

"I'm busy."

"With what?"

There was another silence.

"Greg, we've got an Angel of the Lord here spilling heavenly secrets and you're _busy_?"

There was a long silence before Dean answered. "Look, I just... I can't ok?"

"Why? What's the problem?"

There was a long pause, that Castiel knew, betrayed a falsity in the answer.

"You saw! He was all over me!"

"He was confused, Greg, it's fine now."

Dean didn't respond, but there was the sound of rough breathing from the device, and a muffled curse.

"Please? Come on."

Sam hung onto the phone helplessly for a few moments, until he was rescued. Jessica stomped out of the kitchen and seized the phone from Sam, who surrendered it without protest when her hand clasped around his, dropping his hand from hers as though she intended to brand him with her touch.

"Greg, it's Jess."

Dean didn't answer.

"I noticed you left your keys here last night. That means your car is still in the lot."

There was a longer silence.

"I don't really care why you decided you'd rather walk to your place than drive your car. But, if you don't get your ass here in the next hour, I will key that stupid thing with _its own keys_. Got that?"

There was a sputtered protest on the other end of the line.

"One hour, or the Chevy gets it." She flipped the two edges of the phone closed quickly and Castiel heard the muffled sound of Dean's surroundings cut out.

She grinned at Castiel and Sam proudly, before proceeding back to the kitchen: "Who's hungry?" Sam's eyes tracked the movement long after she had passed through the threshold and out of his sight.

...

It took Dean an hour and a half to arrive. Jessica didn't make good on her threat, but instead sat with Castiel, Sam and Bobby in the sitting room, this time across from Castiel, although throwing a few glances at Sam when she thought he wasn't looking.

In the interim, Sam answered Castiel's questions as to his own circumstances, and those miscellaneous queries he had about the nature of their modern world. If any of the group thought Castiel's particular fascination with Sam's past was odd, they made no mention of it.

Sam and Dean were not related. In fact they grew up in different "states", as Sam called them in the United States of America, a country across the sea from that which they inhabited now. His parents were Samuel and Deanna Campbell, and he had a brother called Christian and a sister called Gwen. The family was not wealthy, and Sam had carried out the majority of his schooling on scholarship, including the years he spent at '"college" – Stanford – the same as Jessica. He stubbornly avoided looking at her when he said that. He was unmarried, which he insisted was not unusual for a man of his age in the modern world, and had carried on a serious relationship with a woman named Sarah when they were at College together for two years, before he had moved to England to continue with his "postgraduate work". Jessica's face went stony when he mentioned Sarah with particular fondness and there was a pained silence when he finished describing her for Castiel, before Castiel asked another question of him.

In many ways, he was still the Sam that Dean had described to him – he was fascinated with books and learning, and largely disinterested by material occupations. He was bright and lively, especially when he discussed his areas of study with Castiel, gesticulating wildly and lighting up with an energy and brilliance that was indescribable, even to Castiel's vast range of human experience.

It was not only Castiel who is captivated by his easygoing and energetic nature. As he spoke, he drew the attention of Jessica too, on the seat beside Castiel. Castiel noted, with amusement, that she failed to look away from Sam, even when he ceased to speak and deferred to Bobby for a more technical explanation of their occupation. Her interest was only broken by the knock at the door that marked Dean's arrival, and it was broken then suddenly and accompanied by a sudden awkwardness and self- monitoring that saw her stubbornly avoid looking at Sam when he made to answer it.

Whether such erratic behavior continued into the afternoon, however, went unnoticed by Castiel upon Dean's arrival.

Dean was stormy, and he carried out an aggressive conversation at the doorway with Sam for a few moments before Castiel intervened, loathed to hear Dean's voice used so angrily. "Greg, please sit."

At his words, Dean stiffened, but obediently moved himself across the room to the seat, where he placed himself beside Bobby. As with their last meeting, he avoided Castiel's gaze, but this time there was more distress in his posture, as his fingers thrummed insistently against his thigh and his ears went red.

Sam pursed his lips at Dean's coolness, but avoided comment as he walked stiffly across the room and seated himself beside Castiel.

"You, uh, ready to go Cas?"

Castiel nodded and kept his gaze on his hands.

"Yes. Thank you for being here."

He didn't bother to mention Dean by name, but he _hmphd___regardless, and Castiel heard him lean back against the soft seat and cross his arms.

Castiel didn't speak until he forced himself to look up again. While he kept his gaze on Jessica and Bobby, he couldn't help but seek out Dean in his peripheral vision. When he did so, he took care to keep a quiver out of his voice when he witnessed the muscle in Dean's jaw jump again and his face stiffen. Eventually Castiel had to look away, and lower his gaze to his hands, where he could avoid the thunder in Dean's face, and remember him lighter and carefree and watching Castiel with adoration. It was a small comfort, in the strange place that he found himself now.

...

**1424**

"You're in" Garth proclaimed proudly.

Rufus shot Garth a dangerous glare from his position on the right flank of the travelling party: "Garth. That's impudent."

Garth smiled goofily, missing the sharpness in his tone: "Sorry. You're so in, _Captain_."

Dean, who was riding beside him, on rest from his position as point of the formation, hid his laughter from Rufus behind a poorly-acted cough.

Rufus glared at him too. "That attitude's going to have to go if you're going to rule the City, Dean."

"That's Captain to you, Rufus." But Dean winked at him, to show the reprimand was not a serious one. Even if it had been, he doubted Rufus would have cared. He was a tough one. Even though Rufus glowered, Dean made nothing of it. They'd been riding mostly in silence, and tension, for five straight days. Now on an open plain, they had more chance to relax. With the skies so open, they'd have plenty of notice if Angels were nearby. He was up for a bit of relaxation.

Garth punched him on the shoulder lightly and chuckled. "You're the luckiest guy in Ardus, you know that?"

"Luck's got nothing to do with it, my friend. It's all about knowing how to treat your Lady." Dean lounged back atop Impala, stretching out the muscles in his core that were stiffening from being so curled in upon themselves. He threw Garth a lazy and amused wink before righting himself, and giving his girl a thankful rub on the neck for tolerating his jostling.

"Oh yeah? What's that? You got some kind of special maneuver?"

"Maybe." He grinned and threw Rufus a knowing smirk. Rufus glowered and let his horse drop back behind the front group.

Garth chuckled and ignored it. "Yeah, I got a few of those too."

"You _do_?" There were catcalls from the back of the group.

"Ooooh yeah, works every time. You know that serving maid at the Brown Bear Inn? "

"Yeah."

"Yeah. Garth'd her."

"You… _Garth'd _here?" Dean repeated the phrase with incredulity.

"Sure did. I've got tricks."

Dean raised his eyebrows and bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a growing smile.

"How you go about it?" He kept his question as serious as possible, although his voice cracked at the end, and he had to press his lips together around it to keep from hysterics.

"Well, there's multiple parts. Some of it just can't be taught. And it helps I look good in a uniform."

At that, Dean couldn't restrain himself, and he leaned over Impala's mane and muffled his laughter – _that _serving maid was Jo, his best childhood friend (besides Sam, that was). She and her whip-tongued mother Ellen ran the alehouse, and he didn't doubt for a moment Jo wouldn't tolerate any kind of weak pick up from passing soldiers. Those that did try were liable to find their faces in the pigs' slop bucket later. Garth hadn't chosen the subject of his fictional encounter well.

"Whaaat? I do!" Isaac snorted and the group properly lost it then, although they, like Dean, took care to keep the sound muffled.

Even Rufus bit his lip at Garth's protests: "What, I did Garth her!"

They were lost in fits of silent laughter, with the occasional errant snort, until Dean thought he saw a quiet shadow to his right, one hundred meters up the Road. His entire body went alert at once, and before he even held up his hand to his men to signal that they should stop, he heard them quiet behind him. The group halted and Rufus cautiously advanced to his side, still atop his own steed.

"What'd you see, Captain?"

It wasn't so much seeing as feeling, but Dean rarely let on that many of his near misses were based upon intuition, rather than sharp eyesight or hearing. His men wouldn't buy that kind of flimsy instruction, even though it had saved them more times than they could count.

There was rustling in the carriage cabin behind them. Presumably, its inhabitants thought the stopping of their movement meant it was time for a bathroom break.

"Rufus, go inform our passengers they're not to leave the carriage. We're moving them off the Road. Get them to stay quiet and make some space for us. Quickly." Dean kept his voice low and even, so that no listeners could detect the quiet hint of panic that was beginning to thrum through the group.

Rufus whirled around and trotted silently back. He whispered to the carriage's occupants through a small space in the wood left for enabling their breathing in the cramped space. There were a few audible murmurs and gasps from inside and Rufus rapped on the wall sharply but softly as a warning.

While Rufus was speaking with their travelers, Dean raised his arms in signal to his men, raising them both in Ls and then extending them straight in front of him towards the Road. He then returned them to their original position and then extended one to each side. He held them horizontally, palms facing forward and fingers fixed together.

The reaction was quick and efficient. The left side of his men peeled off to the left. A few dismounted, and raced back to the food wagons, taking the mares which pulled them and dragging them by the bridle and edging them carefully and quietly towards the tree line.

Those on the right at once moved to steer the carriage in the other direction, to a smoother bit of path where the Road met the tree line most easily. Rufus dismounted and stood there, waving his men forward with his eyes still on the spot ahead of them on the Road.

Dean stayed on point, flanked now by Garth and Aiden, his fastest and lightest riders. Were a disturbance to arise, their purpose would be to ride at full speed away from the site of their passengers and take whatever lay in wait with them. It would give the wagons a chance to get away, and the men an opportunity to cover themselves under angel-proofed tents, or in the passenger carriage.

It was rare to invoke such measures – if they were quiet no creature would be interested in the party. But there had been occasion where it had been necessary. If the creatures were not lead away, they were liable to fixate upon the Angel-proofed carriage that housed the civilians. The walls of the structure may be impenetrable to the creatures, but they were not entirely secure. A smart creature with the right utensils could crush the thing and attack its inhabitants. It was better to lead them away.

When the carriage was off the Road, Rufus signaled to Dean and remounted his steed, keeping her at a steady walk as he approached them.

"Are we staying on the Road, boss?"

Dean kept his eyes ahead of him.

"Yes. You two" he indicated towards Rufus and Garth "should be ready to go South. We'll go north-east if we can. Weapons at the ready."

Carefully, the men inched their swords from their scabbards, trying to avoid the ringing sound that usually accompanied the drawing of their blades. Dean's weapon, Devil's Trap, he held loose at his side, away from Impala's carefully covered flanks, ready to swing upwards to surprise any attacker. The others followed suit, letting their arms rest rather than exhausting themselves by holding the heavy blades forwards in wait.

"What do we do now?" Garth asked nervously. It was the first time he'd been put on point when the wagons had had to leave the Road, although he knew the answer from his training.

Rufus glared at him, a reprimand clearly already composed in his head for later, if there was one.

Dean quieted him with a quick glance, before he turned his eyes back to the Road, and readied his posture for a quick start. He swallowed, smothering the hint of bile that hung in his throat. "Now we wait. And stay quiet."

…

Castiel had been following the travelling party for two days. He'd happened upon them quite unexpectedly, for they'd been moving with expert quietness along a Road he had thought long since abandoned by Ardus' Guard. The particular spot on the Road where he had happened upon them had once been the site of a great massacre that Castiel himself had been a party to. There had been no human survivors.

He wasn't sure of the purpose that compelled him to follow. Perhaps it was merely the comfort of falling back into his old routine, and the challenge of revisiting his silent tracking skills, which had long been out of practice. Perhaps it was merely to usurp his usual routine before winter came.

Still, he had followed, without really questioning what he was doing, and observed the travelling party. It was a large group, although much smaller than the parties Castiel remembered seeing in years past. The Citadel had once seen fit to send small armies to protect food supplies, but recently the trend had turned towards smaller, more silent groups.

The group was lead by a man much younger than Castiel was used to seeing, with light brown hair and a stocky physique. His face was delicate, still somewhat childlike in its appearance. He might have only been twenty-two or twenty-three. Despite his youthfulness, it was immediately obvious why the young man was in charge of such a group, despite the presence of clearly older and more experienced soldiers. Across the man's chest, in a leather armor worn by most of his party, was emblazoned the mark of one who had achieved the supreme soldier's accomplishment – the man had felled an Angel by his own hand. He was a Slayer.

Castiel was familiar with Slayers – he had come across many in his years protecting the Road, and he knew they were highly skilled and courageous. Very few soldiers could hold off an attacking Angelus, let alone fell one when it had taken to assault. Once set upon, chances of survival for any human were slim. Generally, escape was only ensured by staying out of reach of the creatures and utilizing the protection of sigils and distractions. But felling an Angel could only be achieved in close proximity – the hide was thick and usually required direct assault to penetrate. Long range weapons were not quick enough to follow the sharp, erratic movements of the creatures, and glanced off their steely exterior more often than not.

The mark of the Slayer meant that this young man had achieved a virtual impossibility for a human – he had defied the laws of nature and defeated the Goliath when he was but a David.

Over the days he observed the party, however, it became clear to Castiel that the mark of the Slayer was only one of the reasons that the man had been given such a position of responsibility. He was tireless in his devotion to the safety of his group, and cunning in his management of them. His men were attentive to his every word, and only his second-in-command, a quietly powerful much older man with magnificent dark skin, dared to challenge his authority. But even he did so with a deference and caution.

The young man was devoted. Unlike other Captains he had seen in his years observing the Road, the man frequently placed himself in utmost danger. He nearly almost rode point on the Road, or took up the rear – keeping a wary eye out for trackers. When he rested, he did so atop his mount, rather than retiring to one of the wagons that housed the Citadel's travelers. At night, even when he was not on watch, he kept a wary eye on the forest, and slept with his hand on his weapon and a twitch that indicated he had barely passed out of consciousness.

But for all his caution, he was careful with his party too. He made sure the travelers were regularly checked on, and kept his soldiers calm and carefree. On many occasions, Castiel had seen him make comment to one of his riders and provoke laughter. He would laugh with them, and seem entirely at ease, until he rode ahead or behind them, and his expression changed back to a steely determination.

He was careful too to care for the steed which he rode. When they broke for the evening, he was attended to her hydration and feeding before his own needs. On occasion, when rarely out of sight of his men, he let his forehead rest in her mane and stroked her tenderly, murmuring against her and calming her nerves at the odd calls and snaps that emanated from the forest in the nighttime. Unlike the other horses, he let her graze freely, without restraining her against a tree. Castiel noted, with amusement, that she dutifully arrived for her rider whenever he summoned her, with a soft three-note whistle.

It fascinated Castiel, to see such a young soul with such unselfish disregard for his own well-being. It was not a fault of humanity that the young tended toward self-absorption – Castiel understood it was a natural tendency that was rarely negated until human reproduction forced a reassessment of priority. Still, to see it manifested in one so young was intriguing – he found himself wondering as to how the young man had acquired such awareness and carefulness.

The thought plagued him for several days as he followed the travelling party. His pursuit was largely redundant, since the group was careful to avoid attracting any Angels in the area – they would not likely need his protection, as they may have had in the old days. The one time they had been forced into alert, and had left the Road, had been when Castiel himself had not been careful enough in his concealment, and the young man had noticed his presence ahead of them. The group had remained stationary for several hours, and the man had thoroughly combed the area stealthily and silently with a few of his men, before he cleared the party to continue travelling.

It was difficult work, with such an alert leader, to follow them. And Castiel knew not why he did, other that out of convenience that he had happened upon them, and his lack of interest in returning home.

It was the most fortuitous impulsive decision he had ever experienced.

On the sixth day he had followed the group, they settled for the night under the cover of a less dense patch of trees on the side of the Road. As was their custom, a comb of the area was performed and it was declared safe (Castiel knew it was devoid of Angels for one mile at least, after he carefully performed his own check). There were some Angelus another mile or so away, but Castiel was sure that the group's silent practices would keep them safe from attracting attention. Still he kept a watchful eye – ready to provide a distraction if need be.

The young man had settled his group, and combed the area himself again, after the preliminary search was done. He had performed watch for a large part of the night, until his second-in-command insisted upon relieving him, and he (resentfully) curled against a large boulder at the border of where the group was settled, by the remnants of the fire they had extinguished before nightfall. He fell asleep almost instantly though (no doubt wrecked with exhaustion) and only stayed awake long enough to position his covered feet into the dying coals of the fire. Castiel wondered at the innocence in his face when he slept, as though he were but a boy on first trip on the Road.

The traveler that exited the carriage was quiet and didn't raise an alert. She was noted by a soldier who stood watch at its entrance, but he let her pass when she gestured embarrassedly at the tree line. The solider nodded curtly and let her through. She walked quickly and with purpose outside the patrolled perimeter and into the darker depths. Castiel followed her carefully on foot, in order to ensure she remained safe without supervision. Given the male soldier's embarrassment, he assumed she had come here to relieve herself and had declined an escort.

She looked back furtively behind her several times on her short trip, and her alertness made the hairs on the back of Castiel's neck prickle. She was more focused on pursuit from the campground than the waiting forest. Modesty was one thing, but this… it put him on alert.

She stopped only fifty or so meters from the campground and checked around her once more. Satisfied she was alone, she squatted in the clearing, and fumbled with her robes. Castiel withdrew his eyes for a few moments, until the sound of trickling water ended. Slowly she rose, still adjusting within her robes. And then she smiled.

Castiel's heart was pounding, thudding against his chest with instinct that _something was wrong_. Moments later, that instinct was proven correct.

From her robes, she withdrew something. It was small, and Castiel could not see it. By the time he realized what it was, it was too late. The woman struck the object in her hand across her other, and a moment later a light flared to life in the clearing. She contemplated it only for a second, as though sensing Castiel was near, before dropping it to the ground where the light flared to life with unnatural speed, invigorated by what Castiel now realized was a substance that she had poured there deliberately. Then, she began to scream.

It was long, shrill and piercing and it carved through the silent night like the sharpest blade. Even as Castiel stretched his wings and hurtled forwards towards her, trying to seal his hand over her mouth to stopper her cry, he knew it was too late. The sound rung in his ears and echoed through the sky.

Moments later, it was met by a shrill return cry through the night. The howl of the Angelus. They were coming.

There were yells back at the camp and a scuffle as two men, clearly having been dispatched raced towards her through the darkness. Castiel rushed backwards with the woman in his grasp, keeping his hand secured over her mouth. She struggled a little against his hold, but not out of fear, he suspected. She was not yet done with her task and the grip of an obsessive kind of madness to end it.

The men arrived at the fire and batted at it with the cloaks they held in their hands. It did nothing to quell the flames, which ate away at the dry ground around them with a supernatural ferocity. They yelled in panic to one another and gestured back towards the campsite, before turning and running back towards the camp area, where the yells and squeals of panic of the civilians were not being properly smothered by the remaining guard.

When they left, Castiel whirled the woman around to face him. She bit and licked at the hand he still held over her mouth, which he pressed more stubbornly against her lips.

"_Who are you?_" he hissed, baring his teeth and spitting upon her face with the ferocity of his words.

She shook her head underneath his hand before he'd even had the change to remove it and began to laugh, all the while wriggling and kicking against his grip.

He slammed her back against a tree and forced his other hand around her throat. She acquiesced and merely continued to breathe her laughter against his hand.

"_Why did you do that?_" She laughed further, even after he pulled his hand away and allowed her to speak.

"Speak!" he shook at her shoulders, trying to push through the insanity that gripped her features and racked her whole body with nervous twitches. As his panic rose in his chest, he lost the ability to control his whisper, and the command came out as a bark and a growl, and she grinned at the viciousness of his response.

When he slammed her again, she swallowed her laughter and breathed out three words:

"Watch them burnnnn" she hissed, before she commenced with cackling again. Her tongue flickered out across her lips, and her irises narrowed so that she became serpent-like before him and he withdrew in horror.

The moment he released her, he became properly aware of the screams that carried through the night sky, so much closer now and marking the arrival of his brothers and sisters for this woman's spectacle. As she surveyed his horrified face, she cackled louder and her eyes became alight with the fire that blazed behind her (however that was possible) and they danced with insane pleasure.

He turned at once, and commenced running, spreading his wings for a hasty take off and aiming for a gap in the tree line that would bring him above the forest's ceiling and within sight of his brothers and sisters.

As he felt the lift of force beneath his wings that marked the commencement of flight , he looked back, in time to see the woman stagger back into the flames and commence, once again, with screaming this time made viler by the accompanying smell of her demise.

Oh God.

The shadows of his brothers and sisters swept along the treetops, barreling towards the source of noise and light. From the ground, in between the woman's wails, now haggard and pained, he could hear the sounds of weapons being drawn, and the urgent beat of hooves as the men presumably attempted to ready the passenger wagon for movement from the flames.

It must be that the men would stay to fight, while the travelers were pulled to safety. If there was any safety for them. It was doubtful. The commotion though was enough to wake the whole forest, even with the woman's screams dying as she sizzled. Their only hope was distraction – the party was sure to be extinguished if they stood against the oncoming creatures.

Castiel swallowed and accepted his reality. There was only one option for him, really, unless he preferred cowardice. But it meant facing the inevitable. His brothers and sisters had been right that he would soon join them. They had lead him here through his dream, for whatever purpose. But at least he could try to provide one small act of his Father's mercy to his children in protecting them as best he could before he met his fate.

His vocal chords strained to drown out the sound of the chaos when he raised his voice and attempted to yell above it: "Brothers! Sisters! It is me you want!"

From across the treetops, he could see a few orient their attention in his direction, and he carried on with his screaming as he yelled for them: "I am here for you! Come for me!"

With those words, he took off, speeding furiously away from the commotion and barreling through the oncoming Angels. Those who he clipped turned, hissing, and called to him shrilly.

"Join me!" he cried, over his shoulder as he sped on and flew as fast as he could, towards the darker, deeper centre of the forest, from where he knew more Angels would be coming.

It was only thirty seconds into the flight before he realized it was fruitless. The screams at the camp were no longer stifled, but rose in earnest terror. The sound of weapons and cries of those meeting their ends rose above even the cries of the Angels that called through the forest now, calling to their brothers and sisters for information as to the commotion. There was the sound of cracking wood and the horrified shrieks of women and children, while men hollered in voices that cracked with the realization of their impending annihilation. It was a far greater promise than that of ripping apart the solitary body of one Angel yet to fall.

They were doomed, Castiel realized with sudden clarity amidst the commotion. He hung in the air, suddenly wracked with a fit of impotence in the face of such carnage. This road was to become the site of a second massacre. Another one with no survivors. His life was forfeit, and it would still mean nothing.

"_Uh_" was the only sound that Castiel could emit – a kind of weak moan that protested against reality – a _No_ that could not quite form in the face of a circumstance that flew against rules that Castiel knew were fictional. The Angelus did not have to prefer his life to theirs, even if he had declared it for them. That was the point. There was no rationality to the circumstance. Only cruelty and faithlessness and Godlessness.

As he descended slowly to the treetops, beneath him, Castiel heard the thunder of hooves and a rough voice calling out desperately. He watched as he saw the shadows of two mounted riders weaving through the forest below them back toward the Road.

"Dean, stop! You can't go back! They're dead already!"

The man's voice was desperate and broken as it called through the forest, trying to be heard over the pounding of hooves into the forest floor.

Further up the road, Castiel saw the black horse and its rider emerge, sword at the ready and held out in a last charge.

"Dean!" A lighter horse swerved onto the Road, carrying the darker, older man that Castiel had estimated was second-in-command. He grabbed desperately at the Captain's reigns and swung perilously from his saddle as his horse galloped at full speed to align itself with the nimbler mare. As he grabbed at them, he pulled at the mare's bit sharply and she swerved suddenly and dangerously, whinnying in terror as she struggled to hold herself upright with the weight of her rider thrown forward against her neck. She and the paler stallion slammed into one another and skidded along the gravel of the road, neighing in terror.

The Slayer was yelling atop his horse: "Goddamnit Rufus, those are my men!" His voice cracked with urgency and despair and brokenness as his mare finally corrected herself and found her feet, swerving to a stop on the side of the Road, her reigns still in the darker man's hands.

"They're gone, Dean. We have to leave."

"We left them!"

"We had to. Come on, we have to go now. They'll hear!"

The dark man yanked on the mare's reigns and pulled her towards the tree line. She whinnied as her rider stubbornly pulled back on them and forced her to a halt.

"I stay with my men!" In the Captain's hoarse anger, there was the despairing cry of a child too, that pleaded with the silent unresponsive forest.

The darker man didn't respond and pulled on the reigns again. The mare reared in frustration and her rider scrambled to stay on her back, whilst holding his sword away from her exposed flesh.

"Dean, it's over. We can't do anything. We have to-"

His words were left incomplete as a howl from above cut them off. Castiel turned in time to see one of his kin fly past his shoulder, barreling in an attacking dive towards the ground, and knocking him out of flight. He tumbled to the ground, mercifully avoiding falling through a set of sharp branches, and rolled, encased in his wings' protective hold. He felt the skin ripping as he rolled across the gravel though, and he stifled a cry of pain.

There was a scream that he heard as he fell, and a terrified whinny, before the human sound was cut off with a guttural snarl and a retch. A moment later, he heard a tearful "No!" and the sound of a sword swiping through the air. He righted himself in time to see the body of the darker man, still gurgling, fall to the ground, blood gushing from his open esophagus which had been torn apart by the mouth of the creature. His body lay, twisting into contortions, as though it would force death away from it until, as soon as it had been alive moments ago, it became a corpse.

The animal descended upon the Captain then, a bloody grin across its face. The Captain elbowed it away from his vulnerable neck and twisted upon his horse to face it, sword raised and face spattered with his comrade's blood. The man's face was a snarl that shook with the ferocity of a caged animal at its most vulnerable and most dangerous. Castiel grabbed frantically at his waist, where his blade hung and drew it. As the Angel twisted, and flew down to strike again at the man, this time angling itself better for a kill, Castiel yelled at it, pleading: "brother, no!"

The sound of his voice was enough to distract the Angel momentarily, and the Captain took the opportunity to grab at the Angel and wrestle it. He fell from his horse as he did so, and the creature whinnied and bolted from the tussle.

Castiel pulled himself from the ground and raced towards the fighting pair, but was stopped when he heard the cry of the man and saw the Angel sink it's teeth into his uncovered leg, ripping at the flesh and tearing a chunk from it, which flew from its mouth and past Castiel to land with a vile squelch against a tree behind him.

The man howled as the Angel grabbed at his throat and pounded his head back against the dirt. The yell was cut off with the second thump of his head against the ground, and the Captain went limp in the creature's arms. It leaned forward slowly, grinning foully, and was seconds away from ripping at the man's throat with its bloody mouth when Castiel shoved his blade through its own throat and heard the choke that marked its temporary demise.

Despite the omnipresent screams of his brothers and sisters around him, he hacked off the creature's head for good measure with the Captain's sword (far sharper and more brutal than his own) and threw it back towards the Road. Made lighter without its head, Castiel heaved the body of the bleeding Angel over the unconscious man to smother his scent, and retreated silently to the cover of the forest, only meters away, cowering under his wings and pleading to his Father to spare him a torturous end like that which had met the travelers he had been too slow to protect, whose screams were still piercing the clearing.

…

The human screams died quickly, but the Angel's chorus of ceremony and celebration lasted for hours more as they feasted. Only when the light began to rise over the horizon did the refrain slowly fade out. Even then, Castiel remained, shivering, encased in his wings, against the tree trunk he had thrown himself against, murmuring in a kind of madness.

He might have waited there for another day and night, lost in his own self-loathing and distress, but for the soft moan of the Captain that dragged him from the brink.

"Uuummgggghh", the man choked over his own words and retched underneath the body of the Angel. At the unexpected sound (for Castiel had been convinced the man too had died during the night) Castiel stumbled to him without bothering to cast his gaze around his surroundings. With little care, Castiel heaved the dead (at least, for now) Angel from where it covered the Captain. The man was covered in sticky, tacky blood and dirty, sweaty grime. Castiel heaved himself at the sight of it.

The man torturously tried to open his eyes and raise his head, but he winced in pain, and let his head drop back again, groaning. Castiel dropped to meet him, and reached to his neck to check for the strength of his pulse. It was weak, but persistent – not the flutter of those who were near Death's stranglehold. The man was alive. He had survived the night.

The man winced at the feel of Castiel's touch on his neck, and he forced his eyes open for a few more seconds before the balls rolled back in his head and he went limp again. Castiel kept feeling for the pulse despite the brief turn of consciousness – it stayed, although its pace lessened slightly.

Quickly, he ran his hands down the man's body, searching for the wound he'd remembered seeing inflicted. He felt it on his right thigh – the skin was torn and swollen and his fingers came away bloody. The scent was rotten.

He wouldn't remember what possessed him over the next few hours. At no point did his decision feel conscious or calculated. He remembered tearing down his breeches with trembling hands, and emptying his bladder's contents onto the man's wound. He remembered being surprised he hadn't pissed himself the night before. He remembered ripping at his shirt, for the Captain's had the same festering smell as the Angel that had lain on him, and knotting it around the man's thigh. He remembered momentarily fretting as to how he would transport the man, and mapping out the forest in his mind to locate the nearest water source. He remembered whistling for the mare, the same three note combination that the Captain had used, and being pleased with his idea when she responded.

He remembered slinging the man across her saddle and climbing behind him, and the burden of the Captain's weight as he lolled back against Castiel and groaned a little, passing in and out of consciousness.

And he remembered that they left the clearing at a thunderous gallop, as though the mare knew her master's life was in danger, and she was desperate for its preservation.

...

**2013**

When Castiel withdrew from the memory, he found himself confronted with the burn of Dean's gaze on his face. It was searching and open, for the first time, and Castiel found himself unable to withdraw from it, as he knew he should. There was fear in Dean's eyes as they appraised him, but it was not the defensive aggressive fear that had occupied them previously. Rather, it was a fear that was unacknowledged in the rest of his stiff posture that spoke to a distressed, urgent and pleading fear that thrummed with a low hum deep in the mind's recesses.

When Castiel witnessed it, he sought it further, burrowing into it with his own gaze, and opening himself to Dean through his own expression – it was one of pleading, and a stuttered small cry for him – _Dean, please_. Dean's eyes widened momentarily, before the glassy walls snapped up and his eyes darted away from Castiel's, his breathing suddenly erratic and harried and every-so-slightly desperate.

The silence was broken by Jessica's voice. "Cas?"

He pulled his gaze slowly away from Dean to Jessica, who looked stricken across from him, her fingers clutching at a blanket she had wrapped around herself and her knuckles white.

"The people, in the carriage. Did they all die?"

He met her gaze evenly. "Yes. Aside from Dean, only one escaped."

Jessica let out a shuddering sigh.

"Who was she?"

"She was... a wretched soul. Who was paid the right price."

Jessica breathed out slowly.

"All those people."

"Yes."

The silence hung in the air until Sam broke it.

"Perhaps we should take a break."

He eased himself slowly from his seat and ambled towards the kitchen. The group sat silently until he returned, carrying four mugs of tea, which he held out the group. Jessica took hers and cupped it in her hands, though she looked at it glumly, and with some distaste. Dean similarly ignored his and placed it on the floor at his feet.

"So, Dean was wounded."

"Yes, severely. The bite of an Angelus was filthy. Even a shallow cut was enough to spread deadly toxins through the bloodstream. He had virtually no chance of survival with a wound so deep and close to his core."

"But, you rescued him anyway."

"Yes."

"Why? I mean, you didn't..."

Sam nudged her lightly. "No. I did not know then what Dean would be to me. But... I still do not know. I only imagine my Father had a hand in it."

"God."

"Yes, him."

Jessica gave a surprised little exclamation. "No, I meant... it was an expression of shock."

"Oh."

Jessica smiled at Castiel quickly, but stopped again at once, clearly embarrassed at such a show of positive emotion after so distressing a part of Castiel's tale. They waited in contemplative silence for quite some time, and Dean stared stubbornly at his feet. Eventually, Castiel spoke up shakily:

"Perhaps, I ought to continue?"

Three of four of the party met his eyes and Castiel felt a coil of nervousness in his stomach.

"Yes, please Cas."

Sam nodded and smiled forlornly at him, and Dean sat up a little straighter.


	6. And Your Heart

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**1424**

It had been a risk, travelling so far in such a short time, to bring the Captain back to his cottage. He had stopped only once, at the sound of running water and Castiel had quenched his thirst and cleaned the most superficial grime from the man's wound. He'd pissed on it again, in the hope that it might do some good to counteract the filthy Angel corpse it had been left under, but it had not. The wound had festered and the soldier's skin was beginning to burn. Against Castiel's chest, he began to murmur and jostle with the onset of delirium.

Castiel administered a small dose of the poppy first, upon arriving at his home – it wasn't enough for the anesthetic effect he wanted, but it would hopefully dull the man – Dean – to the sensations of the upcoming procedure. Castiel could feel the steady throb of the affected area beneath his hand, when he ran his hand up the soldier's leg, checking for swelling. It was rank, despite his best efforts – the venom had infiltrated the wound too quickly.

After he had peeled the bandage back, Castiel had thrown up twice from the smell. It was still intolerable, even breathing through his mouth, but with nothing left in his stomach to empty, he was able to control himself sufficiently to carry out the task at hand.

He set immediately to clean the wound as best he could with what little he had at his disposal – a mix of salt of boiled water. Occasionally, he had to stop to pull out gravel or clumps of dirt that had collected on the journey with his tweezers, and remove a few ragged shreds of skin. The task was arduous and careful, and even passed out and under the influence the poppy, he felt the man's body stiffen and recoil from his touch.

When the wound was clean, he stepped back to appreciate it – it was worse than he thought. The mouth had ripped a chunk of muscle not quite as deep as his thumb from the thigh, and the whole area was red raw and swollen so tight it was practically closed upon itself.

There was a jolt of panic deep in Castiel's belly. Whatever he had at his disposal, it wasn't enough. The humans he had managed to heal in the past had not been near so advanced in their infection as this man was, and their wounds had not been so deep. He paced the room several times, unable to tear his eyes away from the hole as the man began to shiver on the table. Eventually, he spurred himself to action, with the sensibility that even a failed attempt was better than no attempt to spare the man's life.

He left the wound in the open air while he ground the plantain weed (thankfully, that he had in abundance). When prepared, he applied it as a poultice, pressing it as deep into the throbbing wound as he dared. He had nothing to cover it with, to ensure it stayed in place, but he held out in the hope that his patient would be incapacitated long enough for it to draw. When he was done, he cleaned his utensils carefully, in case they would be required for more action later (in which case he would prefer them to be rid of the taint of infection that currently ravaged the man's bloodstream), and he prepared a cooling compress for the man's feverish skin. It did little to alter the burn below the surface, and the man sweated worse with every passing hour. But it was all Castiel could do, that was not sitting back and allowing the man to die.

...

He applied another poultice the next day, and removed the pus that the first had drawn. But there was no change in the man's general condition.

At some point, he stripped the mare of her saddle and washed her down, being as gentle as he could with the sores that had emerged on her skin from where she had been left to wear her sweaty saddle in the cold hours of the night. In the afternoon, he took her out to graze and left her tied to a tree with sufficient rope that she could reach the tiny stream that ran beside his home. It was daylight, so she would be safe.

Regardless, that wasn't his main concern. The concern was that the feverish man that shivered on the table before him, and turned yellower with each passing day.

Castiel wasn't making him better.

And he didn't know what to do.

In the old days, his answer had always been clear. He knew his father's intentions. The humans were to be spared. Where that meant his Grace, there was no doubt as to his actions. It was the reason he was so impotent now. He'd held the hands of so many dying humans, and torn them from the brink, even when it dragged at his very soul to do so. He loved them, and he rejoiced in their return. And he knew it was right.

But now his Father had forsaken him, and his tortured brothers and sisters outside. He had left Castiel and the humans to torment and suffering. There was no longer any reason to suppose he cared for their lives to be saved. And therefore, there was no need to save this human.

Yet he was here, and yet Castiel had not thought of his Father when he made the decision to bring him. And now he was dying.

Who was this man? Castiel knew he fascinated him – more so than the other humans. He'd seen his power – in battle and in manner. But was that worth the risk?

There was more value than just his life at stake, Castiel knew. He was valuable to the humans – he was a leader. He lead them carefully and bravely on the Road, so far as Castiel had seen. And the deference with which they attended to him only suggested that he had done so on many occasions, to great success. He was a man who held other lives in his hands. Without his direction, there had been terror and confusion. The soliders had lost their assurance, and therefore they had lost their lives.

If Castiel returned him he would return an important soul, he was sure.

But was that enough? There were other important souls that he'd seen lost four nights ago. The second-in-command had been one such soul. He was valiant, and his care for his men was the same as this man's. And he'd seen that man's throat torn out. He'd seen the attack, and he'd done nothing to stop it.

It wasn't just the worth of this man's life that was in question. It was the worth of his life against what might be Castiel's own that was the true calculus.

If Castiel were to heal him, and it were to deplete his Grace, would it be worth it? Could what the man could achieve in his lifetime, exceed an infinity of Castiel's efforts feeding and placating the Angels could offer? And even if it were worth it in the larger scheme, was it worth it to himself? That he should pass into oblivion for the sake of this man?

It was selfishness that held him back, more than anything. It made him doubt, where those like Anna had never doubted, preferring to press the large shards of their Grace into a person's wound for their Father and taking on the Change.

Castiel had known for a long time that he was no Anael. He had no such courage and purity of thought. Where she had faith and certainty, he had doubt and rebelliousness. Even before their fall, it had been she who had lead the Garrison and brought meaning to their Father's word. He was a soldier only, never imbued with the strength or power to inspire so wondrously, nor follow so faithfully. He thought of himself, where others thought of utopia. He was imperfect.

But if selfishness was to be the determinant, why was this man here? Castiel had risked himself in retrieving him (and the mare) in the first place. And he'd known hours into the ride back that the chances of the Captain's survival were incredibly low. He'd known that the scent of the man's blood would bring danger to him on the ride home. And he'd known when he'd removed the bandage, and seen the wound that there was no hope without intervention. And he'd done it all anyway. He'd tried, rather than give the man a mercy and break his neck.

That was the truth then. He'd already decided to save him. He'd intended this man to live from the beginning, knowing what it might cost him. He'd prolonged his suffering because he had hope. And he knew that there was only one ground for hope; only one method to save the man dying before him. He'd known that night, above the treetops that he would have given his life to save the humans from the pursuit of the Angelus. He'd been prepared to do it then, and he'd been prepared to do it again when he'd approached the warring Angel and the Captain, ready to place himself between them.

Whatever failings he may have, he'd made the decision long before he stood at this man's bedside, contemplating his future.

It was settled then. Now to get to it, before he allowed himself to change his mind.

…

Dean was in darkness. But it wasn't cold darkness, like the pitch black of the Road on nights when the clouds covered the starlight. It was a hot, pressing darkness that infiltrated his lungs and made each breath feel fruitless.

He was clawing at it, but it was a thick, warm glue, and it clung to him like a sinister kind of comfort – shushing him as it encircled him.

Then there was a bright heat – so sharp it was almost cool – that felt like it might slice all Dean's veins open at once.

And then the darkness was thinning, little by little. He could feel a slow, steady coolness starting to drip down him, like an egg had been cracked on his forehead. It wasn't fast enough – his whole body still screamed at the heat that crowded him. But it was lessening, slowly but surely. Enough for Dean to gasp in a few breaths of mercifully cool air before the heat reasserted itself, warring and attacking and desperately preserving his existence. Then the coolness flooded him, like ice, and he felt his whole body constrict around it, desperately holding onto to its therapeutic presence. Begging it, _please, save me_.

And then there was light.

…

Castiel felt dizzy after he sent a jolt of his Grace into Dean's bloodstream. It had been a cowardly option, he knew, but he was sure it would work. The Grace would purify the blood, and purge it of the infection that the wound had spread. The wound would be left open, and would still require extensive cleaning before it could be closed. The man's body would have much to accomplish in its natural healing. But, without the threat of the infection, Castiel was sure he could treat the wound – he had done so with high success before.

He'd had to sit and breathe for a while after, in any case. He wasn't sure if he really had come close to expending the last vestiges of his Grace, or merely been so terrified of doing so that he'd physically exhausted himself. He knew there was a dull ache at his core, and a sensation of brittleness underneath his skin. But he chose to ignore it, beyond the few minutes of recovery that he allowed himself. The point was, he'd survived and succeeded. He had a soul to save.

Cleaning the wound was much easier this time around. He applied one final poultice, which would seal the wound long enough for the muscle to commence healing, and left a cold compress on the man's head, before he curled up, still clothed, in his nest, to sleep properly for the first time in several days.

…

He was awoken what could not have been more than a few hours later by the man's soft groans and the sounds of his utensils clattering to the floor as the man shifted atop the table. He was waking up. Castiel hurriedly stood up and grabbed at the fur he'd left beside him. He tucked his wings as close to his back as he could, to avoid creating an odd-looking silhouette, and threw the fur over his shoulders, before stumbling quickly to the table and placing his hands on the man's forehead.

It was still a little warm, but much cooler than a few hours ago. The Grace had worked. He quickly looked down to the injured thigh and ran his hand lightly along the muscle. It was still a little swollen, but the skin no longer shone with the infection. The poultice was working too.

As was his habit, although he'd long since stopped believing he could be heard, he murmured out loud: "Thank you, Father."

The man's eyelids had begun to flutter and at the sound, they flew open and he pushed himself up weakly, looking around panicked and confused.

Castiel bent over in front of him, dipping his head to meet the man's eye.

"Stay calm. You're in a safe place, but you're injured. I need you to stay still."

The man met his eyes, but he was squinting, adjusting to light after so many days caught in his delirium.

"What happened?" His voice was deep and hoarse.

"You were on the Road. There was a skirmish and your party was attacked. You fell from your horse and were bitten by a creature. I pulled you away and brought you here. Your wound was infected, but it is healed now."

His eyes were wide and his voice was frantic: "What happened to my men?"

Castiel swallowed, and averted his gaze, feeling again the burn of shame that he hadn't done more. "The sound attracted a swarm of creatures."

The man swallowed, and dropped his gaze too. "What about the wagon with the people in it? Did they get inside in time?"

"They stopped screaming very soon after the attack. I believe they were overpowered."

The man's lip curled, so that his nose crinkled as though there were a bad smell in the room. His voice, at once, was hollow when he spoke.

"Did you see her?"

Castiel paused momentarily to consider his answer

"Yes… she was mad."

The man slammed his fist down on the table viciously, and a moment later moved to put his head in his hands. He shifted his legs up to support his elbows, but stopped halfway, hissing.

Castiel put his hand to the man's shoulder. "I'm sorry that you are distressed, but you need to lie still. Your wound is still open".

The man ignored him in favor of staring blankly ahead. Castiel left him to his grief for a moment, walking to his small kitchen and bringing back a flask of water. The man barely registered its arrival.

"Please drink it. It's been three days since I brought you back here."

The man sighed deeply, and the air that escaped through his nostrils did so in a wheeze. With a resigned nod, he took the flask and swallowed the offering quickly. Setting it down, he turned to look at Castiel warily: "How did you find me?"

"I was in the forest. The sounds drew me there. I hoped to help, but… I saw you attacked and I pulled you away and hid you, until I had a chance to get you away."

The man nodded and looked away, to his leg, where he traced the edge of the poultice with hs finger. "Where are we?"

"In a very old mountain base."

The man's lip curled, and he leaned back on his hands.

"Are you going to be more specific?"

"No."

The man's eyebrows raised, but his eyes stayed blank and cautious, taking in the array of utensils Castiel had left arranged wantonly on the table in the kitchen.

"You live here? Alone?" There was a clear disbelief in the man's voice.

"Yes. For a long time now."

"How do you survive? With the Angels out there?"

Castiel averted his eyes and adjusted his fur carefully, shrugging it higher up on his shoulders, so he could be sure the weight would not pull it down and reveal his back by accident. "I stay quiet, mostly. They seem to have adjusted to my presence. I have been untroubled for a long time."

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Right… And what's your name?"

"My name is Castiel."

His brow furrowed and he tilted his head a little: "_Castiel?_"

"It's a very old name."

"Huh…"

The Captain's eyes took in Castiel's features, and the bulk of the fur he was hiding under. They lingered for a moment on the small bulge at his shoulder blades. Castiel turned quickly so that his back was facing away from the man and flattened his wings as hard as he could against his back.

"…. And what do I call you?"

The Captain stared at him and his brow furrowed.

"Uh,… Dean."

Castiel smiled. "Are you hungry, Dean?"

Dean didn't return the smile. "No."

Castiel sighed and turned away to the kitchen. "Regardless, you must eat."

He brought back bread and a few slices of the dried fox meat he had prepared last week. "I'm sorry that I have so little to offer. Watching over you, I've been distracted from my usual routine."

Dean took the offering but only set it beside him. He didn't eat it for several minutes, until Castiel stared him down, and he obliged by taking a tiny bite.

He wretched it back up again only a few minutes later.

Castiel eventually returned to the kitchen with the untouched meal and left it there, while Dean lay back on the table and covered his face with his hands.

"Dean, I…" Dean barely stirred in response. "I'm just going to fetch some fresh water from the river. You need to drink more. I'll only be gone a few minutes. Please rest."

Dean nodded but didn't remove his hands from his face.

Castiel left the room and forgot to take the bucket with him. He waited out some time by the stream instead, grooming the mare's mane with his fingers and petting at her nose. She whickered softly in response, but didn't return his touch as affectionately as she had her master's. Castiel supposed she imagined he was dead. He knew she had understood on their ride home the urgency of her master's circumstance, and Castiel had felt her ravage her own muscles on the return journey. She was paying for it now, with stiff movements and a heavy gait. Castiel sighed and ran his hand down her flanks, trying to comfort her. She stamped at the ground softly but otherwise ignored him.

Castiel waited as long as he dared, but was determined that Dean should rehydrate himself. Based on his state, Castiel doubted he was being necessarily careful and eventually he returned, pulling his fur tighter around him.

Dean hadn't moved from the table, but he had righted himself so that his legs were swinging off the ledge of the table. His face was red and his eyes were glassy, but he greeted Castiel with a false overcompensatory cheeriness. Castiel felt it would be better to ignore the tear that still hung at Dean's chin, murky with salt.

"So you're some kind of forest doctor?"

Castiel busied himself retrieving the tools Dean had knocked to the ground. They would have to be purified again in due course. Dean would certainly need stitching to the wound and Castiel was wary of treating its cleanliness with anything other than hyper-attentive care.. "I have some experience in healing, although I haven't had occasion in a long time."

"So," Dean gestured to his leg "How bad is it?"

"It's deep. The wound was infected. I tried to keep it clean while transporting you here, but an Angel's mouth is filthy."

"How long until it's fixed?"

"Sorry?"

"How long until I can walk?"

"I… The cut is very deep. A large part of the muscle severed. That will take weeks to properly heal. I need to stitch the wound closed. It will take around ten days for the skin to seal, but there will be pain for much longer. It may take some time to recover proper use."

"Once it's stitched, will I be able to walk?"

"You will, but… the movement will likely open the stitches. You'll risk infection again, and more damage."

"So how long?"

"Once the stitches are gone, you will be able to walk. But it will be significant effort. It will be a number of weeks before you are properly healed."

"Son of a..." Dean's false smile vanished abruptly and he slammed his fist against the table and breathed out hard and fast through his nose.

"I'm sorry."

"No… I,…" He looked up, still huffing, but apologetic. "Thank you. For saving me. I just… if any of my men are still out there, I need to find them. They're my responsibility. This is my fault. And I can't even damn _walk to_…" He cut off, and ducked his head, grimacing and shaking angrily.

"If anyone escaped, they will be long from the site by now. You couldn't help them even if you could walk, Dean."

Dean kept looking down, head hanging heavily on his neck.

"All you can do is heal. When you are done, you can return to your city, or you can search for them on the Road. You cannot be faulted for being unable to do more."

Dean swallowed and nodded resignedly, but his fingers curled angrily around the edge of the table until the knuckles were white.

"…Yeah, just… can you sew me up?"

"Yes."

Castiel crossed the room to where his utensils were still laid out in the kitchen. His eyes flickered to his leather pelt, which lay in its original position on a small stool against the wall at the end of the table. The loose night that had held it closed was considerably tighter than when he'd left it, as though it had been tied with haste.

He turned to Dean slowly, needle and thread in hand.

"Yes, I will sew the wound. But I'd like you to give me back my knife first."

"What?"

"My knife."

"How did you…?"

Castiel advanced cautiously, letting the needle in his finger catch Dean's eye.

"I was a soldier once too. I know that one's guard should not be dropped so easily."

"You're not a soldier anymore?" Dean's gaze was wary, and his hand twitched where is was pressed, palm flat against the table, beside his uninjured thigh – where he must be concealing the knife.

"My cause was futile, in the end. I have preferred the peaceful life for a long time."

Dean shifted a little, and Castiel noted the forced casualness of the movement of the same thigh underneath which Dean had concealed the knife. Dean was clever, but Castiel was experienced. "Why should I trust you?"

"You have great cause not to."

"That doesn't help."

Castiel paused.

"You also have no choice. There's no way you could overpower me with that injury."

Dean was silent.

"I can offer only my sincerest promise that I intend to help you. And…" he smiled softly "…a gesture of goodwill."

He reached into the pocket of his fur and pulled out the knife he had carried on his person since he brought Dean here. Knowing that his wings could not stay secret from him for long, he was prepared for a violent outburst, and he needed to protect himself.

Slowly, and keeping eye contact, he set the knife down on the table beside him.

"Now yours. Or, should I say, _mine_." His eyes flickered to Dean's thigh and Dean's eyes warily tracked the movement.

Dean considered for a while, before he withdrew it from beneath his leg and held it out to Castiel, hilt first. Castiel took it cautiously, watching for a trick. Their fingers brushed as he took the handle from Dean, and Dean dropped his hand abruptly, letting Castiel set it aside on the kitchen table.

"Thank you, Dean. I appreciate your trust… Would you allow me to stitch your wound now?"

Dean held his gaze for a long while.

"… Alright."

"Good. Can you lie back on the table, please?"

"Uh… yeah."

Castiel lay the needle and threat on the table, and boiled some water to clean away the last of whatever the poultice had drawn. Dean tensed a little the first time the needle breached the skin, but otherwise lay unmoving, staring blankly at the ceiling, until Castiel finished his task finally cut the thread.

"You can sit up now."

He put away his tools and turned to face Dean, who was watching him intently.

"It will take at least ten days for the wound to seal. You will have to stay fairly still for that time. If you move too much, the wound may re-open and you'll risk further infection."

Dean pressed his lips together, eyes still on Castiel.

"I understand your trepidation. But regardless of whether you trust me or not, you have no choice. You have to stay here until you are healed."

Dean didn't respond, but didn't look away from Castiel, even when Castiel met his eyes and held the gaze.

"I would prefer it if you would trust me. I have given you no reason to doubt me yet, and every reason to believe I am here to help you."

There was a long silence before Dean looked down and bit his lip.

Finally, he spoke: "in that case… I better give you back this one too." He withdrew a second, smaller knife from behind his back, and held it out to Castiel, a nervous, but small genuine smile upon his face.

…

It was a quiet first few days. Dean slept a lot, while his body took the opportunity to heal. Castiel had done his best to re-arrange the furs that comprised his nest in a more suitable arrangement for a sleeping human. Dean had looked quizzical when Castiel had first offered it to him, and Castiel had given a flustered explanation as to his preferred sleeping arrangements.

Dean had been reluctant to take it at first, insisting as a soldier he was content to sleep on the floor, so long as Castiel could provide him with something warm. But Castiel had refused to hear his protests, and took to sleeping in a small wooden chair across the room from Dean. It was a useful position – he could press his wings into the back of the chair to avoid them re-arranging themselves during the night.

They hadn't spoken a lot. Castiel spent time in his garden, collecting the last of the vegetables, and gathering on the fringes of the forest, although he was reluctant to leave the house for too long in case Dean needed assistance. He generally refused Castiel's offers of help when he was required to move, usually for a piss. But on the second day he'd fallen on his way to the pot. The stitches hadn't broken, but Castiel had heard the cursing even down by the stream. He'd ignored the puffiness of Dean's cheeks when he'd found him on the floor, and the many times he'd returned to the cottage after he'd given Dean some time alone.

He checked the stitches every day. The wound was deep and it was taking longer to heal than expected, but he showed Dean how the skin was beginning to swell to close around the wound. It would heal eventually, and the soldier would be restored. The only time Dean smiled was when he eagerly anticipated returning to Ardus.

They talked a little too, although Dean was still wary of Castiel and seemed perturbed by his manner at times. He learned that Dean had been a captain since he was 21 (he was 24 now) – an age so young it was unprecedented. His father had served as a soldier before him, and he had a younger brother who was a Scribe in Ardus' Grand Library.

But mostly, Dean was silent. The cause of his distrust wasn't difficult to surmise. As a soldier, Dean had seen men torn limb from limb by the angels that haunted the Road. Skilled men, armed with weapons and years of training. So the thought of a man, surviving on his own in the forest, for an indeterminate amount of time was fairly unbelievable. He was clearly under the impression that Castiel had not shared the whole truth.

It made Castiel nervous. Dean would be bound to his home for at least a month. And the temperature was changing. By the time he was healed, it would be far too cold to travel the distance to the Citadel. If Dean were to have to wait for warmer weather, he might remain with Castiel for two months, maybe even three.

It would be too long to keep the secret. That was certain. Already his wings were cramping from disuse. He'd taken to the depths of the forest a few times, far beyond where Dean would be able to see him from the window, and let them stretch. He'd wanted to fly, but he'd decided against taking the risk. The relationship was still a cautious one, and if he were seen that would be the end of it.

The trick would be gaining Dean's trust sufficiently that his revelation would not seem so drastic. If Dean understood he had sufficiently human qualities, he might not associate Castiel with the Angels, and wish to annihilate him.

It was for that reason that Castiel kept the horse's presence quiet for the first few days. It wasn't difficult; she stayed quiet and rested in the stable behind Castiel's cottage

She was a sweet thing, albeit somewhat distrusting of him. He'd spent some time with her each day, combing her mane and tail with his fingers. He was struggling to feed the animal, unsure of what exactly she was able to eat. He'd tried to cut grass for her, and had it stored in several buckets along the line of the barn. But once the cold came, he wasn't sure how to provide for her. All he knew was that it was crucial he did.

On the sixth day since Dean woke, he decided he was in need of her services. He set Dean up on a chair in the doorway of the cottage, with a small smile and the quiet promise of "a surprise". Dean seemed slightly put off by the way Castiel had phrased the promise, but he sat contentedly enough, with a blanket draped over his knees, while Castiel walked around to the barn and retrieved the mare.

She came with him willingly enough, although he had draped an old rope bridle around her head to lead her, unaware of how she would react seeing her master again.

At the sight of his mare appearing from the side of the cottage, Dean jolted in surprise. Then he almost visibly inflated before Castiel's eyes.

He stood up stiffly and leaned on the doorframe, careful to keep his weight off his injured leg and reached his hand out for her.

"_Impala_" He breathed, eyes wide and shining. Castiel smiled in earnest and lead the horse to the foot of the stairs.

"God. Castiel, _thank you_." He reached forward to the horse and stroked one hand down her neck before leaning forward and burying his face in her mane and sighing. Castiel could hear him murmuring into her neck: "How are you, baby? I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry that I kept her a secret from you, Dean. I was… worried that the ride here may have exhausted her. I wanted to be sure, before I brought her to you."

Dean nodded, but didn't remove his face from where it rested against the horse.

"She's beautiful."

"Mmph" Dean breathed out against the horse.

Castiel let him to his silence for a while, before Dean eventually withdrew, and just stroked his palm up and down the horse's head.

He turned to Castiel. "Really, Castiel. _Thank you_. This horse, she means a lot to me. We've been riding together since I started serving as Captain. She's saved my life before."

"I'd believe that. She's a smart creature."

Dean smiled and looked at her fondly. "Smarter than her rider even."

"I'd like to leave her out to graze for a few hours, while there's daylight."

"Yeah, that'd be good."

Using the doorframe for support, Dean slowly lowered himself back onto his chair and wrapped the blanket he'd disregarded on the ground around his shoulders.

"Would you like me to bring you your meal here?"

"Uh, yeah. Thank you, Castiel. I'd like that."

Castiel smiled and lead the horse to the pasture in front of his home. There, he pulled off the bridle, knowing that now the horse had seen her owner, she would stay in the vicinity. Glancing back, he saw Dean wiping at his face hurriedly.

Castiel turned back and watched the pasture for a while, giving the soldier his privacy. He was stressed and tired, and the loss of his men was obviously haunting him. He hadn't said anything. Castiel doubted it was to do with the tentative trust they were trying to set up. Dean didn't appear to deal with emotion readily at all. That in itself wasn't strange to Castiel. He was very similar.

After a minute or so had passed, he returned to the house to prepare Dean's afternoon meal. His stomach twisted when he placed it in Dean's lap, and Dean returned with a small smile – one of the first he'd seen since Dean had arrived.

Revealing the mare had had the desired effect then. He would have to reveal his true form to Dean soon enough then, before the goodwill of the gesture wore off…

...

**2013**

Castiel finished his storytelling earlier that evening despite the pleas of his party to continue. Dean remained silent upon the seat and unmoving, for the final few hours, and it was only the movement of the party around him that jolted him into action. Sam set about preparing dinner for the group, while Jessica plagued Castiel with questions of his home, and he even went so far to draw the layout of his cottage for her, on a bizarrely thin piece of paper and a "pen" that Jessica explained was equipped internally with ink.

Throughout the discussion Dean sat silently, eyes on the floor before him, but he gave a slight twitch when Castiel explained to Jessica how his nest had been assembled, and how Dean had modified it over the course of his stay. Soon after, he departed silently to the kitchen, where Castel could not detect the sounds of any conversation passing between him and Sam.

When Bobby excused himself to visit the shower room, Jessica crossed the room and seated herself beside Castiel.

"Are you ok, Cas?"

"I am well, thank you."

Her eyes creased around the edges.

"I'm sorry for the way Greg's acting. I don't know what's gotten into him. Honestly."

Castiel pursed his lips and dropped his gaze. "I understand he has his own difficulties. I promise, I feel only concern for him."

Jessica bit her lip. "It's just... well, it seems to bother you."

Castiel felt his wings stiffen against him, betraying the calm exterior he was forcibly maintaining. The movement clearly didn't go unnoticed by Jessica, who shifted slightly against the seat but made no mention of his reaction.

"Is there a particular reason you want him to be here so badly?"

Castiel met her eyes, but didn't answer.

She nodded once, curtly and gave him a small smile: "right, not my business. Sorry. I'll make sure he stays in line." She fished from her pocket a ring covered with jagged silver items, which jangled against each other. He presumed these were the keys to Dean's wagon that she had obtained custody of. "These are staying with me."

Castiel gave a little laugh and she winked at him conspirationally, carefully replacing the ring in her breeches. They sat in silence for a little while, and Bobby meandered through the sitting area to join the men in the kitchen.

"Do you want some fresh air, Cas?"

Castiel looked up from where he had been contemplating his fingernails, and imagining Dean's own when they'd been together – cut short and rough, usually with the dregs of dirt caught under their surface. Soldier's hands.

"I should avoid being seen."

Jessica shrugged nonchalantly: "it's dinnertime. Everyone will be watching TV. Just wrap yourself up in a blanket and stay on the balcony – you'll be fine."

Castiel considered for a moment before he nodded. The air in the room was stifling and thin in a way he could not describe – it tasted sharp and metallic. And it pressed on him further knowing that Dean was on the other side of the wall, but avoided him so stubbornly.

"You boys want to come?"

There was a cry of distress from the kitchen and no answer.

"Come on." Jessica tugged on Castiel's arm. "They're burning it. Let's get out of here before the smell catches up."

Once he was properly wrapped so as to conceal his wings (Jessica tentatively arranged the blanket around him, with apologies every time she accidentally touched his feathers inadvertently), she led the way to the "balcony" outside the main entrance. She led him across it and down an L shape so that they were looking out with an unencumbered view of the road before them. Castiel's wings bristled with self-consciousness, and while Jessica's eyes flickered to the blanket, she didn't make mention of them.

They were situated as part of a much later block of rooms, built on top of one another, overlooking a grey square where a few wagons sat, utterly silent and still, upon its surface. The door from which they had emerged was numbered, as were the doors along the balcony, in order to properly identify them for guests.

It was an inn of sorts, although Jessica corrected him and explained it was known as a "motel" in their time. The group had only planned to stay there for a few weeks, but after they'd made the discovery of the tunnel below the castle, there'd been little time to relocate to better housing – they'd barely spent any time at this place since then. They all had their own rooms next to one another – Jessica explained they'd been staying in Sam's for the past few days. Hers was next door, marked with the number 8. Bobby had his own on the other side, which they all avoided using because, as Jessica said, "he's grumpy and messy". Dean was in another motel, that Jessica said was "gross". He didn't pursue further what she meant by that. They used Sam's room, Jessica said, because it was tidier, and didn't smell so terrible and...

"Are you and Keith betrothed?"

Jessica stopped, mid-sentence, and blushed furiously. "No! We're not even... we're friends! I, uh..."

She turned away and anxiously began combing through her mass of curls.

Castiel swallowed awkwardly and looked back out to the road, in order to give her a moment to collect herself. In truth, given the obvious affection between them and even Bobby's acknowledgment of it, he hadn't anticipated that the question would be such a sensitive one: "I apologize. The offence was not intended."

She spluttered through two attempts at a reply before she managed to squeeze out, through an increasingly reddening face: "Why- why would you think that?"

Castiel looked away quickly and rearranged his expression into one of nonchalance.

"I misunderstood. When I last inhabited with humans, it was unusual for a male and female to spend so much time with one another when they were not betrothed."

That was a bald-faced lie, but he delivered it with enough evenness that Jessica seemed at least a little reassured. Still, she stayed silent for a little while and nibbled at her bottom lip, arms crossed.

"He's my supervisor, Cas. We-, I mean, he couldn't. It's not professional. He'd lose his job."

Castiel nodded, although he missed understanding what she meant with the words "supervisor" and "professional". He understood that Bobby was the superior to Sam in intellect, and thus instructed him. Perhaps she meant to express the same relationship.

"Plus... he doesn't see me like that. I'm just a kid to him."

Castiel doubted that very much. It was obvious, even to him, that Jessica was the kind of woman who was widely admired – no man would ever imagine her as a child. When she thought Castiel was looking away, she dropped her head and for a moment, and her forlorn expression was entirely visible.

"Don't say anything to him. It might make things uncomfortable. Greg's already been causing trouble."

Castiel rested his hand on her arm momentarily, as an expression of apology. She stiffened from the unexpected touch, but her smile conveyed it was from surprise and not rejection – in fact, she looked elated that he had initiated physical contact with her.

"I won't. I am sorry."

"That's ok, I-"

Across the balcony, the door to Sam's room swung open and Dean, phone pressed to his ear descended down the stairs. He didn't seem to notice their presence across from him. When he reached the grey square below, he wandered beneath the balcony, eventually coming to rest somewhere below them, but wandering in and out of their viewpoint as he paced while he spoke. His voice was far more animated than Castiel had become accustomed to in the past few days. In fact, even hearing him speak at all was something of a surprise, for he had been so reluctant otherwise with the task.

"Please, I know you're a tabletop player. If you've joined the live action crew, it's gotta be because of a chick."

He laughed loudly and without weariness at the response – it was so loud and genuine that Castiel was startled by it, and he didn't manage to make out the voice that Dean was communicating with.

"I thought what happened at Comic-Con stayed at Comic-Con."

There was a murmur at the end of the line, and suddenly Dean's voice rose into its upper register: "a gold bikini? You're kidding."

There was almost a hint of the breathlessness to it that Castiel remembered used to be evident in Dean's voice when... He quelled the boiling in his gut that marked the mental curse of the image that now shared the prize of provoking that reaction from Dean.

"Nice."

There was another murmur.

"Hey, we're both just as pervy as each other!"

He chuckled for a moment before he responded to the murmur: "yeah, yeah. I'm looking forward to the wedding. Hey, uh..." the joviality in his tone disappeared almost instantaneously, "how was it? Did you go see them today?"

The response was longer and drawn out, and Dean's breathing changed markedly so that there was a slight shudder on each inhale and exhale. Castiel let his eyes drop over the balcony to where Dean stood by the Impala, slightly hunched and leaning against it with his left hand for support.

"That's good. Did my delivery arrive in time?"

The murmur on the other end rose slightly in volume, but Castiel avoided tuning in, preserving his intention to give Dean his privacy until he was ready to overcome his evident discomfort with Castiel.

"I know, I just... it was her birthday."

Another pause.

"I know! Look, I'll do it myself next time. Things have gotten busy and I couldn't get away, and I didn't want to miss it."

A longer pause.

"I didn't call for a lecture, ok?"

Dean's voice rose a little, and there was aggravation in his tone. It was a defeated kind of aggravation though, that rallied foolhardily against rationality.

"Cas?" Jessica turned to look at him, and she made a point of following his gaze to where Dean stood. "I think we'd better go back inside."

She kept her voice low, evidently attempting to avoid drawing attention to the fact that they had heard the first part of Greg's conversation, and the sudden downward turn it had taken.

Despite her efforts thought, the weight of Castiel's wings was enough to cause the balcony to creak as they made their way back across it, and when Dean heard them moving, he whirled at once, and for a moment there was a moment of complete vulnerability written across his face and his eyes shone. Then the windows were up and they deadened right before Castiel. In a second Dean's face was stony and his features stiff. He murmured quickly into the phone: "gotta go", but flicked it closed before he had even finished with the phrase. This time, Castiel discerned the voice on the other end of the line – light and female and confused – even if only momentarily before Dean ended the conversation. He kept his eyes fixed on Castiel that almost akin to a challenge, and Jessica waited out the silence until Castiel looked away before she tugged on his arm.

"Come on, Cas."

When he looked back, Dean had turned away and was rubbing angrily at the back his neck. His phone was clenched in his fist, and his knuckles were white were the skin was tight with anger. But beneath that, in a way there hadn't been in the days before, there was a kind of limpness. When Dean walked forwards, he dragged his feet slightly, instead of placing them. And when he dropped his hand from his neck, it fell weakly, rather than moving with deliberacy. And his head hung on his neck with a heaviness that Castiel did not recognize.

When Jessica tugged again, he moved with her. Whoever this Dean was, and whatever had happened to him, Castiel barely needed persuasion to look away.

…

**AN:** Just a quick note to say thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you to all of those that have been kind enough to read and review this work. Your feedback is immensely appreciated. I'm glad you all enjoy spending your time in this 'verse. It's been a bastion of sanity for me at points this year, but it's nice to finally have some guests in here with me for a change. I hope this work meets your expectations and I'm very much looking forward to writing and sharing more of this story with you all


	7. For No One Can Hear

**CHAPTER SIX**

**2013**

"Who was Greg speaking with?"

Castiel had held back the question for the duration of the afternoon, carefully displaying a nonchalance and disaffectedness about their earlier encounter. Dean, however, had no such sense of etiquette – an odd irony given that he himself had been the one to introduce Castiel to the behavior. The display of emotion, he said, where it was strong, regardless of its content, was not practiced in civilized circles.

The slight easiness that Dean had acquired earlier that afternoon, that meant he didn't flinch at Castiel's tiniest movement, or wince at the commencement of his speech, dissipated instantaneously after the happening. He didn't return to Sam's room for more than an hour, and his face was once again entirely twisted into a contrived kind of stoniness, that formed a rocky jagged barrier between Castiel, and the golden warmth that was so characteristically _Dean._

And he was visibly uncomfortable again, curling in on himself protectively when Castiel spoke with Sam or Bobby or Jessica, and requested a sampling of the meal that they had prepared for themselves. Dean swallowed audibly multiple times while Castiel had tasted, chewed and (entirely dutifully, for Sam's concoction left much to be desired) swallowed his meal, before Jessica burst into laughter and punched Sam playfully on the shoulder before she, with wide eyes, scarpered up and called on her own phone for "pizza".

Castiel had joined in the laughter at that. He understood that Sam had no difficulty having the joke of his cooking made at his expense, and he humbly acknowledged his utter failure with good grace. At Bobby's description of the appearance of the dish as "fresh earthworms and stale dirt", Castiel had properly joined in the laughter.

It promptly stopped when he caught Dean looking on at him in horror. Dean departed for the washroom soon after that.

After an afternoon of the question churning about in his stomach, Castiel had found the voice to ask it in that momentary reprieve. He supposed that he could have waited until the later evening, when Dean would presumably take his leave and return to his own accommodation. But in truth, the question was constricting around him with every moment it went unanswered, and twisting a dark and infested barb of fear directly into his gut.

So, upon the first moment he came upon, he asked it, regardless of the ill timing: "who was Greg speaking with?"

"Huh?"

Sam froze and raised his eyes to Castiel cautiously, ceasing his furious scribbling at the notepad.

"The person who Greg was speaking with. On his phone."

Sam and Jessica's eyes flickered to one another quickly across the seat upon which they had both been scribbling furiously in notebooks. Sam raised his eyebrows at Jessica, whose own brows furrowed in response.

"I don't know, Cas."

"Oh."

When silence fell, neither Sam or Jessica continued with their scribbling but watched him cautiously.

"Why do you want to know?"

Sam's voice was altogether far too casual and, even with his eyes cast downward, Castiel heard the slap of a light reprimand from Jessica.

Castiel considered. He knew the true reason – he wanted to know of the woman that occupied Dean's attention, in this time. It was selfish to feel envy – this Dean was not _his _Dean, and even if he were, Castiel did not believe Dean should have owed him anything if he believed he were dead. He loved him and he could never wish loneliness upon him.

But with Dean so close, with the same gruff voice and light eyes and essence, at his heart, Castiel couldn't help but feel a burn in his insides that for Dean to be so affectionate with another human was ruinous.

In truth, he didn't know which would be worse. Reassurance that Dean had found someone to care for him, or that he hadn't – and had been subjected to the torturous process of internalization that Castiel remembered from the forest. In his years amongst his Father's glorious creation, his time with Dean was the beacon that made the rest seem dreary in comparison. Even before Dean's arrival, Castiel had known something was amiss. It, no doubt, would have consumed him eventually.

To conceptualize this reply for Sam and Jessica was impossible, however, even if they did indeed know that they were personally acquainted with the Dean of the story that had enraptured them over the past few days. So Castiel did what he could, and lied instead:

"Jessica and I accidentally came upon a conversation that I assume was intended to be private. I would like to apologize to Greg, but I am uncertain of the scale of my offence."

"Oh". Jessica's features immediately relaxed and she leaned back into the soft seat upon which she rested. "Don't worry about it, Cas. He just got a fright is all."

Sam's scribbling, which he had recommenced upon Jessica's relaxation faltered slightly, which Castiel noted with a quick glance, but Sam covered it well and continued.

"Nonetheless, I should like to apologize."

"It's up to you, Cas. I wouldn't bother – Greg's –"

They were interrupted by Dean's appearance at the window, and a light tap on the door. Sam left the seat and opened the lock for him, and Dean arrived a little more meekly than the day previously.

There was an awkward pause when Dean entered the sitting room and appraised the seating arrangements. Sam made the decision for him, by crossing the room to sit next to Castiel, who moved his wing obligingly.

There was no release of the tension that pulsed along the line of Dean's neck, but he ambled quietly enough to seat himself next to Jessica and Bobby, who shuffled down to accommodate his bulk. Almost forgetting himself, Dean's eyes flickered up to Castiel momentarily, before he wedged himself back further in the seat and took to considering his hands in his usual position.

"Greg. Before we begin, I-"

Castiel was silenced by the flicker of Dean's eyes to meet his own. This time they held stoically and the gaze was controlled and level. Nonetheless, Castiel witnessed the bump of the apple at Dean's throat bounce as he swallowed carefully.

Castiel mimicked the gesture unthinkingly before continuing, and felt his wings bristle at his back, which drew Sam's attention (detectable from the slight shift on the seat beside him).

"I apologize for witnessing your conversation yesterday. I had no intention to trespass upon your privacy. Please forgive me."

The apple bobbed again and the muscle at Dean's jaw (so strangely active, these days) pulsed with the effort. Dean had to clear his throat minutely before speaking. Castiel noted it with a quizzical tilt of his head, remembering that such clearing was a rather nervous habit of Dean's, that had occurred under another type of gaze in a far more intimate circumstance. Now, it seems, it had developed a different meaning.

Dean's voice was low, and gruff, and uneven in tone, clearly being forced out as he spoke: "Thanks."

It was abrupt, and to the point, and Jessica rolled her eyes across from him. But nonetheless, Castiel felt a small beam spread across his cheeks and tickle the corners of his mouth. It was unapologetically brief, stubborn and willful. But it was _Dean_.

…

**1424**

The right time to reveal himself properly was only a day later. Since he'd returned the horse, Dean had started to look at Castiel differently. He let Castiel help him to the pot the next morning, when he woke needing to relieve himself. His tone was lighter and less encumbered. He offered to help Castiel with his winter preparations too. There wasn't much he was capable of doing, but Castiel offered him a few torn sets of breeches (for Castiel couldn't show him his customized shirts), and set him to work repairing the rips.

Dean was clumsy with a needle. His soldier's hands weren't made for delicate work, and his childish petulance at failure made Castiel smile and Dean laugh in return.

When their eyes caught, there was less wariness there. Dean was chattier too. He told Castiel about how Impala liked to be groomed, and about the cottage in which he lived. He even explained the necklace that he left around his neck at all times, even when washing – a gift from his brother when they were children. It wasn't a lot of information, but it far exceeded anything else that Dean had volunteered in the four days previously.

The new openness made Castiel feel guilty. He was still careful to only stand facing Dean, and he snuck out in the evenings to stretch his wings and to leave kill for the Angels on a feeding post he had established not far from his home. Knowing he was doing so only a few hundred meters from where Dean waited calmly, having chosen to trust him, felt false. He'd never carried out deceit before, and he found he didn't have the taste for it.

The afternoon of the fifth day was the time he had chosen. He'd checked over Dean's stitches. The skin had sealed tentatively, and he provoked a smile from Dean in telling him that in a few more days, he would find it easier to put weight on the leg. It wouldn't be long before he could travel around the house more easily, and he would be able to walk outside and see Impala.

After Dean had settled in his bed, needle in hand again, Castiel chose to speak.

"Dean. There is something that we must discuss."

Dean's brow furrowed, and he held the breeches up in front of him. He'd managed to sew the two legs of the breeches together with a misguided stitch somewhere. Grimacing, he began counting back the stitches, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong.

"I'm listening."

Castiel took a deep breath. "Since you've been here, Dean, I haven't been completely honest with you, about who I am."

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

Dean looked up and met his eyes. "Well, it's obvious you're hiding something. You've been sneaking around all week. I was a bit wary at first, but…" he stopped, having found the offending stitch, and attacking it with the small knife Castiel had given him for cutting the threat "you haven't tried to kill me yet."

"No." Castiel smiled. "And I don't intend to. It would do you well to remember that, before I am honest."

"Are you a deserter?"

"What?"

"Did you desert a squad? Where are you from? Randur, or Medas maybe?"

"Yes, I did desert, in a sense." It was the obvious assumption to make, based on what Dean knew of him.

"Don't be afraid to say if you are. I would… well, I'd understand."

"You would?"

"The Road… it's not for everyone. Some people, like me, we're in it for life. It's not just a job, it's a cause. But for others, they don't know what they're getting into. Once you're in, service doesn't give you many exit opportunities. Not everyone wants to die at the hands of some beast. They shouldn't have to. People deserve to enjoy their lives." Having unpicked the problematic stitches, he recommenced with the needle, stabbing aggressively through the fabric as though it had personally offended him, the tip of his tongue just breaching his lips at the corner of his mouth.

"But you don't see yourself that way."

Dean nodded but kept his eyes on his careful stitches.

"The Road is what I am. It's what I'm made to do. I'll ride it until the end of the line."

The weight of his fallen comrades only days previously hung in the air between them. The end of the line was not so far away as Dean's light tone suggested, they both knew.

Castiel paused and swallowed. "I'm not the kind of deserter you're imagining though."

"What, are you from further North? I've gone that far a few times. I know the cities. Which one?"

"I'm not from a City."

"Huh?" He looked up.

"I've always lived in the wilderness. In one place or another. The forest has been my home for a long time."

"Did your family live in the forest?"

"They still do."

"Where? Why don't you live with them? Are they dead?"

"I wish they were. Dean, I…"He stopped and took a shaky breath in. His heart was squeezing in his chest.

"I'm sorry. That was… rude."

"No, Dean. I'm not offended. It's just…" He took another breath, steeling himself. "What I'm about to tell you. Or show you, rather. It will change what you think of me. It may make you afraid of me, or hate me. I will need you to… stay calm, and give me a chance to explain myself, before you react. Can you do that?"

Dean paused mid-stitch and met Castiel's eyes, curiously. He looked like he'd just been asked if he could count to three.

"Uh, yeah. I can do that."

"Good."

Castiel crossed the room, and opened the door of the cottage.

"Where are you going?"

"It will be easier if I am outside when I show you. I need the space."

Dean squinted at him and cocked his head. He pulled himself up on his cane as Castiel walked down the stairs and out into the pasture. He saw Dean arrive at the threshold, and lean against it for support.

"How are you supposed to explain from all the way over there?" He called.

"Just… watch, Dean."

Facing Dean, eyes down, he slowly removed his furs. His wings bristled a little, and he felt the feathers puff out as they enjoyed their first taste of open air. Looking up at Dean, he bit his lip nervously and took a deep breath, before slowly allowing his wings to unfold. They rose at his sides, slowly and jerkily, until they were stretched to their full capacity. Two shadows of black against the warm pink of the dusk that was falling in the sky behind him.

Dean stared for a few seconds. Even from the distance, Castiel could see how his body jolted with the realization of what he was seeing, before it froze in shock in the doorway. Castiel opened his mouth to call out to Dean, maybe to reassure him. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter. A moment later, Dean reacted, slamming the door shut. Castiel could hear him bolting it from the inside.

He let his wings drop and crossed the pasture back to the door. Standing beside it, he knocked a few times at the door.

"Dean? I promise, I won't hurt you. And I won't try to force my way in. When you're ready, we can talk. What you've seen. It doesn't change anything. You can still trust me. My only intention is to help you heal and return to your home safely."

He settled on the steps that lead to the cottage entrance.

"I'll wait here. As long as you need." The second statement was a mere murmur, and judging from the bustling inside, Dean wasn't listening in any case.

Dusk fell while he waited. He wrapped his wings and the fur around himself for warmth, for when the darkness had descended the winter chill had worsened. He'd heard Dean moving around inside the house at first. At some point, he'd settled on his chair, for Castiel had heard it groan as it slid against the floor.

Eventually, he grew nervous and moved around to the side of the house. Carefully, so as not to disturb Dean, he looked around and through the window.

The chair was positioned next to the dining table, but it was empty. Castiel cast his eyes around the room, but saw no sign of him. Heart starting to thump in his chest, he hurried around to the front window. He couldn't see Dean in his bed either.

There was a possibility he could have gone to the cellar. Castiel knew that. But he'd also seen that Dean had removed his sword and scabbard from where Castiel had left them, by his hunting knives. And he'd noted that a fur had been removed from the bed where Dean slept.

His breathing unsteady, he ran around the side of the house. He knew what he would find before he got there, but the sight still resulted in a jolt of fear deep in his stomach.

The barn door was open, and Imapla was gone.

…

Castiel only took minutes to prepare. He didn't have time for anything more.

Dean was clever – it might be more than a matter of following the obvious trail. Castiel could take days to locate him in the woods. With Dean's leg in the state it was in, he might need medicine and Castiel doubted he would be able to source himself much food. Worse than that, with darkness having fallen, his troubles might be more immediate. There were plenty of Angels in the area. Perhaps not in the immediate vicinity, but with Castiel's feeding practices, they would be around. And Dean was bound to ride through them at some point, armed with nothing but his sword and foolhardiness.

Equipped with his two largest hunting knives, and the blade he had once used for battle, as well as a small satchel with dried meat and a water skin, Castiel took flight only a few strides from the house. Dean had been careful to lead Impala at a walk, rather than a gallop, away from the barn. Her hooves hadn't marked the ground. But Dean had underestimated the animalistic quality of Castiel's senses. It didn't matter, but it did slow Castiel down. He would have preferred to start with a visible trail. But instead, he would have to rely on smell.

It took him around 10 minutes to smell out their route, for it wasn't what Castiel had expected. Dean must have been planning to give Castiel a wide berth, instead of taking the most direct path back to the City. Presumably he meant to loop around, and join the Road eventually. Perhaps he hadn't even intended to go in the direction of his own city, and was instead bound for Etrea. It was a good plan. The route wasn't much further than that to Ardus. And, as a Slayer, help would await him there.

Castiel stayed close to the trees, in order to try and keep up with Dean's scent. He tracked it for an hour, without any sign of him. He'd had a decent head start, and the mare was fast. But Castiel believed that his injury would eventually force him to slow. His most sensible option was to find shelter for the night, and proceed in the morning.

Two hours in, he lost Dean's scent for a while. The path had followed a fairly direct line to Etrea, and Castiel had begun to fly more aggressively, abandoning his careful tracking. When he'd become aware of the loss, Castiel had had to retrace his flight path for several miles, before he caught it again. Dropping to the forest floor, he could see where Dean had stopped. By a spring, presumably to water Impala. He'd waited there too, under the shelter of the tree canopy. He must have known Castiel had passed over, for the trail then turned sharply to the left, almost doubling back on itself (no doubt, this was Dean's intention) before eventually making a ninety degree turn, and setting off towards the East.

Castiel took flight again following the scent for another half an hour before he saw fit to land again. The reason was a worrisome one. He had smelled the tang of blood in the air. At first, he fretted he was too late, but there was no major spill in the area. The likely reason was that Dean had done what Castiel feared, and ridden too vigorously. The wound may have reopened. If that were the case, the pain would overwhelm him soon. Perhaps it was already too much.

He was more anxious when he took to the sky for the third time. He kept close to the scent, sensing Dean would have had to slow and may now have determined that hiding was his best tactic. He hopped from tree to tree, trying to sense for a disturbance.

Eventually, the trail came to an end, as the first had, and he had to descend to the forest floor. It took an hour of searching to realize what had happened. Dean had tricked him again. Castiel found a small, bloody thumbprint on the bark of a tree along the path.

Dean had deliberately marked the area with blood, and doubled back on himself. At the smell, Castiel had incorrectly assumed that he was incapacitated. But that wasn't the case. Castiel had slowed his pace of pursuit, which (if Dean were still able) had given him an hour of riding ahead of Castiel.

But it also made Castiel nervous. Dean had correctly guessed he would be using his sense of smell. It was a trait he shared in common with his brothers and sisters. But, as far as Castiel could tell, their senses were far more acute. If Castiel had smelt the blood from the skies, then his brothers and sisters would have too. Dean was taking a huge gamble in relying on his skills of concealment. Castiel knew from the days he had watched Dean on the Road, that he was capable of doing so to great effect. But the freshness of the blood would be easy for an Angel to seek out, regardless of visual trickery.

Castiel didn't believe the tactic would pay off, and the urgency of his search increased.

For his fourth flight, his ears were open. He listened for any major disturbance in the sounds of the forest – any sound of enthusiasm, or alarm, that indicated his brothers and sisters believed a prize was near.

The forest was still quiet, but it felt like the calm before the storm. The scent was getting stronger as Castiel followed. He was certain now that Dean's wound had re-opened during the course of the ride. Its smell, along with whatever wound he had inflicted upon himself to pull the distraction stunt earlier, had combined to produce a fairly pungent odor, at least to Castiel's senses. There was no way his brothers and sisters could miss it.

He didn't know whether to sigh in relief, or scream in terror when he located the cave where the scent was concentrated. It was too strong now. Strong enough to actually attract the Angels from further than the immediate vicinity. They might even sense it from a mile away.

Castiel stumbled as he landed, he cast his eyes around the clearing. There were two cave mouths opening under a small cliff. They looked to lead to two separate passages.

He scrambled into one, tucking his wings behind him.

"Dean? If you are hiding here, you need to reveal yourself to me immediately!"

The cave was studiously quiet. It didn't matter. Castiel could smell the blood more strongly now, the further he progressed into the tunnel. "Dean. Unless you want to die, you will answer me!"

There was an answering whimper from the darkness to his left. Stumbling forward, Castiel's foot connected with an outstretched leg, and there was a low moan that reverberated around the chamber, sending ice into Castiel's bloodstream. Even contained within the walls of the cave as it was, it was too loud, and too pained.

"Did you burst the stitches?"

Castiel crouched down, just able to make out Dean's features in the darkness. He'd thrown the fur over his body, and he'd clearly rubbed it in some waste he'd found somewhere. Presumably it was to mask the scent, but it hadn't worked as effectively as he'd hoped.

Castiel ripped it from him, along with the sword he held in his hand, and threw them down by his side. Then he reached out, searching for the injured leg in the darkness.

"Get away from me."

"I don't have time for this", Castiel hissed. His grip tightened on the calf he had managed to grab, and he ran his hands roughly up the leg, feeling for the dampness of the burst wound. "I could smell you a mile away. The fur isn't helping. Your scent will lead them straight here."

"I set up a false trail, miles back."

Castiel found the damp spot where the blood was leaking. As his hands grazed it, Dean hissed.

"And it worked so well for me, didn't it? They've got all night to look for you. Don't you think they'll figure it out?"

He could hear Dean's shaky breaths, and he knew he was struggling with the pain. The nature of the ride was enough to exhaust a man, but Dean had done it all with a muscle had been pulled apart only a few days ago.

Dean grabbed at his wrist and pushed it away. Castiel could hear him scrabbling at the cave floor in the darkness, searching for his weapon.

"I'll kill them. I'll kill you. I've killed your kind before."

"Oh I doubt that." Castiel said darkly.

"I'm a Slayer. You know what that means."

"You're a fool. If you'd waited a few days you'd have been able to ride better. And you would have had my trust. You might have actually gotten away. As it is, you're about to get us both killed."

"At least I'll have your death to my name. Monster."

Castiel stopped his rustling. "So this is the thanks I get for saving you?"

"You shouldn't have." Dean groaned as he tried to sit himself up, and lean away from Castiel and against the hard wall.

Castiel reacted then, surging forward, and pressing his forearm against Dean's airway. Dean struggled, but in his weakened state, it wasn't much of a battle.

"This how you repay me? I risked everything for you! You were dead."

He heard Dean wheeze as his hands scrabbled at Castiel's unrelenting press against his windpipe.

"I put my life on the line to get you to my home. When your mare was tired, I carried you myself. And I healed you. Knowing it might cost me everything. That I might turn, like them, for having compassion for you." Castiel hissed at Dean in a vicious whisper, and he felt the pound of Dean's heartbeat become frantic and urgent, beneath his arm. "I was prepared to give up everything for you. And you throw your life away on some foolhardy escape? After I've only given you reason to trust me?"

Castiel pulled his forearm away, and pushed Dean viciously by his shoulders back against the wall when he tried to scramble forward for his weapon again. Then he replaced his forearm with the curl of his hand, and he squeezed around Dean's windpipe, and crooked his fingers so that they cut of the blood flow to his brain.

"For hundreds of years I have done nothing but try and bring peace to you and your people. And you would still recoil from me as your enemy? You would call me monster, and slay me if you could?"

He reached to his waist and pulled out a knife, placing it in Dean's hand and held it against his throat.

"Slay me then, Slayer. Look at me and slit my throat. If you think all I am is an animal then gut me like one! I'd welcome death if I could. I'd go back to my Father and be rid of you and your foolishness."

He let go of Dean's throat and gathered the loose shirt at his chest, jolting Dean forwards away from the wall. Dean cried out at the abrupt movement, which he must have felt in his injured leg. As Dean gasped in the air he had been deprived of, Castiel felt the knife at his throat tremble with uncertainty.

Castiel growled and reached for the wounded leg again. Dean tried to jerk it away, but Castiel held firm.

"Are you going to do it or not?"

Dean pressed the knife closer to Castiel's throat and growled, but went no further. In the hand at Dean's chest, Castiel could not sense any preparedness in his muscles as he tensed to apply the killing pressure.

Castiel held his breath and reached to his chest with both of his hands, unknotting the satchel he'd strapped across it. The press of the knife against Castiel's throat became a little stronger, but still, Dean made no movement to property attack.

Castiel placed the satchel in between them and rustled there, extracting the dried fox meat from where he had wrapped in a rag at the base.

"Did you use blood from your leg on those trees?"

"…No." Dean's voice was softer now, and it wavered slightly, whispering across Castiel's face. Apparently noticing its uncertainty, he readjusted his grip on the knife and rotated it, so that the sharp blade pressed just into Castiel's neck. It may have nicked the skin at the tip.

"Then where?"

Dean pressed his other hand into Castiel's chest.

"I cut my hand open with a knife."

Castiel seized it and ran his fingers along the gash. It wasn't deep, and the blood had congealed, stemming the flow.

"I need you to re-open it."

Dean stared at him in the darkness for a long while, breathing harshly. Eventually, with a gulp, he withdrew the knife from Castiel's throat and slid it across his palm. Castiel could hear his breathing change and the sound of a hiss being stifled in Dean's throat.

"Rub the blood on this meat. Get as much as you can on it."

Dean did as he was told, letting the blood drip onto the meat and massaging it in with his fingers. While he worked, Castiel removed his shirt, and tore it into a strip.

He knew it wasn't efficacious to be angry at Dean at the present moment - they had more pressing matters of concern. But that didn't stop him from bandaging the thigh roughly, and without much care. He was almost satisfied when his brutish treatment earned a grunt from Dean and a few swallowed gasps.

When he was done, he pushed the thigh unceremoniously to one side and felt Dean's body wince with the pain of it, stiffening against the wall before relaxing weakly and feebly, so that he was slumped against it. Castiel leaned forward, keeping his voice low, aware that the light outside of the cave was dying faster by the second.

"Are you done yet?"

Dean's chest ceased its expansions and contractions as Castiel pushed into his personal space, and felt roughly across Dean's chest until he located Dean's hands, now limply holding the moist meat..

Without removing Dean's hand from it, he raised the carcass to his nose and inhaled carefully. AS Castiel ran the tip of his nose along the flesh, he lightly grazed Dean's icy fingers, and he felt them twitch against his cheek.

"That's good enough. We don't have any more time."

Dean's grip loosened on the meat and he let it drop into Castiel's hands. At once, Castiel rocked back upon his heels and left Dean to exhale the breath he had been holding. Dean used his free hands to adjust himself, and the weakened leg dragged across the gravel of the cave floor. Castiel grabbed at the ankle and held it still as he felt his wings prickle and the feathers ruffle.

Dean stopped breathing instantaneously and Castiel felt his body go carefully limp under his hands. However foolish Dean had been hitherto, he was a soldier, and he knew how to preserve himself, relaxing and quieting the panic, rather than letting it take over him.

After a few minutes of silence, Castiel continued his preparations without mention of the incident to Dean, grabbing at the ruined fur and pushing it into Dean's lap. It must have been the rush of the wind, rather than wings. It didn't matter. It was only a matter of time before the cave was discovered.

"Get your scent on it."

Dean didn't bother to protest, but instead commenced rubbing the fur across his chest. Castiel grabbed at the hand and stopped him with a growl.

"The points where your scent is the strongest. Neck, armpits, and crotch. Piss on it. If you have any sense, you'll be needing to anyway."

Dean raised the festering thing to his face at once and started rubbing it against his neck in carefully kept silence. When Castiel turned his back, he heard the sound of Dean frantically unlacing his breeches and dull trickle of Dean's waste against the fabric.

He left Dean to it and made his way quickly to the mouth of the cave, hunting knife in hand. The chances of finding a fresh kill at this point were weak, but it was worth the few minutes it might cost him if he was successful.

He had very little meat, and to perfect the trick of distraction, he would need more substance beneath the fur armed with Dean's scent, especially if he didn't want the Angels (who would certainly be unsated with his offering as it currently stood) to turn their attention to the mare, wherever she was hidden.

He was lucky. With night falling, animals were stirring and settling, and in their partially altered states, Castiel was able to locate within a few minutes some settling birds. He only caught two, and that was only because they were old and slow. But, at this stage, he had to try whatever he could. As was his way, he apologized when he broke their necks and promised them deliverance unto his Father, as he had in the old days. What their fates were now, he did not know, and the thought, despite the urgency of the situation, made tears sting at the back of his throat.

Dean had dragged himself to the mouth of the cave by the time Castiel had returned, and, correctly anticipating Castiel's intention, had thrown the fur and the meat into the midst of the clearing. Castiel retrieved it, and at once took to a small path alongside the rocky formation that created the cave. He left the fur there, covering the meat, and tore the birds apart quickly to leave the stink of death across the thing.

The plan was, that in proximity to their hiding place, Dean's scent would be confused with the corpses (and the bloody meat Castiel had had him prepare would assist this, mixed in with the small feast). He hoped, however fruitless it was, the Angel's alert wouldn't be raised to the strong presence of his scent in the air. It was a risky strategy, but Castiel had little else to do.

There was rustling in the trees by the time he made his way back to the mouth of the cave. Dean had been hard at work with a stick at the mouth of the cave in the interim, and a number of protective sigils were lightly carved into the dirt beneath it. Castiel stopped at them, immediately imagining that Dean's hateful streak had returned, and he intended to leave Castiel to the mercy of his brothers and sisters in the clearing. But before he properly had the chance to comprehend that realization in his gut, there was a whisper from the back of the cave.

"To your right".

When Castiel turned his head, he at once noted that the sigil to the far right of the mouth of the cave was incomplete, awaiting only one final line drawn across its centre. Quickly, and without hesitation, he crossed the sigils (rendered redundant in the face of the one deliberate error). Dean had left the stick propped up against the side of the cave, and Castiel at once provided the extra sigil in the dirt and felt a wave of force at once rear up, grazing the tip of his nose.

Quietly, he crept to the back of the cave. "It's not guaranteed to keep them out, you know. Anything could disturb the dirt"

Dean's whisper was small and meek: "I know."

Castiel didn't bother to speak then as he made his way to where Dean had positioned himself – at the back of the cave, legs splayed out in front of him. It was a dead end, but it was the only place they had to seek refuge in now. Dean was in no condition to run if it came to it.

"They might still be able to smell you."

"I know."

Castiel exhaled slowly, considering their options, should the mouth be breached. It would depend on their warning and the number of Angels I pursuit. He didn't know where the mare was kept – Dean had had managed to obscure her scent with his own, in his stupidity.

"I'm sorry."

Castiel didn't even bother to respond, despite the crack in Dean's voice, so unfamiliar in light of the days Castiel had spend observing him in the heat of the deep forest, guiding his men with certainty and courage and infallible leadership.

Instead he merely extended his left wing to its full length, at least as far as he could in their enclosed space. It wasn't far, but it was enough to create a small C curve that would have formed a clear invitation, had they not been nestled in darkness.

"Come here."

There was a slight rustle as Dean's body stiffened atop the gravel.

"No."

"You either live or you die. Your scent is still strong."

Dean was silent, but his breathing grew harsher and there was an audible gulp in the darkness.

Then the first scream cut across the night sky.

Dean moved quickly, but carefully. Even with his stiff movements, which indicated his small exertions to reach the mouth of the cave had entirely drained him, he carefully and quickly pulled himself towards Castiel and burrowed his head directly into the deepest part of Castiel's wing, presumably heeding Castiel's advice and attempting to disguise his thickly scented neck.

Castiel curled his wing around Dean quickly, and pulled without care at his injured leg so that it was tucked up against Dean's chest in a ball. The position was clearly agonizing, and Castiel felt a slight bite at the base of his wing where Dean stifled a yell. The bite wasn't deep, but it stung and for a moment his wing stiffened so as to constrict dangerously tight around Dean's head and neck.

When Dean started he immediately relaxed the hold and brought his right wing ground to wrap around the first, and to doubly mask the injured leg, which had unwisely been left on the outside of their arrangement. Without mercy, Castiel leaned forward so that, underneath his wings, Dean was pressed against the cold stone wall of the cave, intending to use the thickness of the cave's walls to additionally mark the scent.

The screams were multiple now, and they rose higher in a frenzy and a frantic chorus that signaled they had stumbled onto the hunt. They weren't immediately close, but with every passing minute they came closer, until the echoes of the screams began to reverberate more strongly around the clearing.

There was a critical mass. That was certain. The scent of human blood, so obligingly spread through the forest was unusual and whet their appetites like nothing else. It wasn't long before the sounds of the Angels arriving in the clearing became apparent at the back of the cave.

Dean kept his body carefully relaxed against Castiel's, and allowed himself to wind into the space, avoiding letting the adrenalin change his breathing pattern or increase the amount of sweat that was accumulating in those particularly scented places along his body. Castiel carefully did the same, letting his mind go carefully blank and avoid the rising horror that threatened to expel the contents of his stomach, and give a bright luminescent marker as to their whereabouts.

Amidst the screams, the sounds of rustling and his own internal struggle to contain his very humanity, it was a long and seemingly endless night.


	8. The Thrum Of Your Fear

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**AN: Hi all! Merry Christmas Eve! My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. Sometimes real life gets in the way of a rigid update schedule - in this case, real life was a lovely stray pup we found wandering a massive intersection by the motorway, who was likely minutes away from being hit, being too terrified by car horns to leave the area and skittlishly darting in between oncoming cars. My friend who was with me in the car pulled off a heroic rescue effort, and armed with nothing more than a lollipop, we managed to lure him into the car. The last two days have been a flurry of appointments, in an attempt to get him checked out for diseases, find any owner that may exist, and find a place for him in a shelter (all of which are full this time of year and refusing to accept strays). It's been very stressful, as we've been trying to avoid taking him to the pound at all costs, since his fate there is certain, and he is a wonderfully natured boy, whose only fault so far (aside from being uneducated in the ways of walk on leash, sit and stay) is that he is woefully desperate for attention -he has tripped many a family member up by weaving between their legs as they try to walk around the house.**

**Hopefully we have pulled off a Christmas miracle for our little boy - last night he met with a potential owner, and failing that, we will drive him to a shelter owned by a friend, which is three hours out of Auckland, where we have been assured he will be kept safely.**

**So again, apologies for late update. Also, pre-emptive apologies for what will likely be an erratic update next week too - I will be away at the beach for two weeks, and will be relying on the internet access of the local library. Their hours are fairly lax around Christmastime, so it may be that I have to update early or late. Be assured though that this story is still chugging along, and there are still a number of pre-written (unedited chapters) acting as a buffer to my Christmas-induced laziness.**

**Thank you for your reviews and support, enjoy your holidays and have a wonderful new year!**

...

It wasn't until mid-morning that Castiel felt safe enough to unfurl his wings from where they were pressed to the cave's wall. Dean grumbled as he was jostled, having only fallen into a nervous and twitchy sleep a few hours earlier. When he properly remembered his circumstance however, he stiffened and withdrew his head from where it was nestled at Castiel's stomach.

Slowly and carefully, Castiel pulled them back from the cave wall. He did it out of concern for Dean's injury than fear for their circumstance. His brothers and sisters had appeared in the night, and had howled at the cave's entrance for hours. It appeared Dean's scent had been smothered sufficiently, since they had not attempted to breach the entrance. In the early hours of the morning, they had dissipated and Dean had fallen asleep.

Dean hissed in earnest as his stiffening leg was forced to make the minutest movement and in the morning light, Castiel could see his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweet and a pale yellow tinge. It wasn't as bad as he had expected, but Dean was certainly in a far poorer condition than he had been the day when he had been housed in Castiel's cabin.

Once Dean was free to move, Castiel became more careless. He left Dean to maneuver himself from the embrace and drag himself to the wall, afraid to cross a boundary with a helpful touch or assistance and break the tenuous trust that Castiel hoped had reemerged after the night's events. Dean righted against the stone there with a series of grunts and stifled moans, and when he was at last seated with his back against the cave, he let his head fall backwards and his eyes closed. Castiel watched as Dean gripped the uppermost part of his thigh with both hands and made a throttling gesture, as though he intended to squeeze the pain out of it.

"I'm going up to survey the area. You should stay here." Castiel was monotonous when he breached the silence that they had been blessed with for the past few hours.

"Does it look like I'm going anywhere?" Dean didn't open his eyes, but he waved a hand feebly at the injury. In the morning light as it filtered through the cave air, Castiel could see where the wound had bled through in the night. Luckily, the blood had appeared to have congealed, and the dark brown-red patch on the makeshift bandage was limited in circumference.

"Is that sarcasm?"

Dean didn't answer.

Castiel stared at him for a long moment, before turning and making his way to the mouth of the cave. At the entrance, he skipped stones across the dirt until the sigils were disturbed enough that he could breach the threshold. Not sensing any Angels in the vicinity, he went to the centre of the clearing, where he would have the easiest upward path between the trees towards the sky.

He could feel Dean's eyes on him as he unfolded his wings and let them stretch and shiver, releasing the tension that had accumulated after last night's stiff and nervous positioning. His feathers bristled in response to Dean's gaze and beneath them, he felt the skin prickle and itch. The sensation was entirely unnerving and unwelcome, and he only endured it momentarily before allowing his wings a few strong flaps and extracting himself from the circumstance.

He stayed in the sky longer than necessary. There weren't any visible threats on the horizon, at least, that made themselves apparent from his searching efforts. It appeared that Angels had been sated enough by his offering last night that they had retired for the day. That didn't mean there was no danger to be had in the forest, but the fact that his brothers and sisters had left the vicinity made him a little more comfortable.

Even after Castiel had cleared the area, he remained in the sky, bracing himself for his return. In truth, he stayed away because he felt hurt and frustrated by Dean's manner. He'd thought that last night, keeping him in such proximity and going to such dangerous efforts, might have restored a little of the trust he seemed to have violated in revealing himself. The fact that Dean had relaxed enough under the shelter of his wings, practically in an embrace, had given Castiel hope that some camaraderie might be restored by the next morning, and he could persuade Dean to return with him to his cottage. But from their momentary exchange, it seemed Dean intended to remain cool and untrusting. To his likely peril.

Sighing, Castiel returned to the clearing. He studiously avoided looking to the cave mouth, avoiding acknowledging Dean until his wings were firmly flattened behind his back. When he returned, Dean hadn't moved, but his eyes were open and they followed Castiel's movements carefully.

"Our path is clear."

"Path to where?"

"Whichever path you wish to take."

Dean froze and looked up at him. "You're asking me?"

Castiel shrugged and crouched beside Dean to collect the tools that he had lost in the night's darkness. He refused to make eye contact with Dean as he spoke: "My intention is to return to my cabin. You are at liberty to travel where you will. If you come with me, I will treat your leg, and provide you with shelter until you are able to travel to your city. With the damage you have done, that will not be until after the snows."

He turned, still crouched, and faced Dean. "If you wish, you can ride to your city now. I won't stop you."

Dean was silent for a long while, and Castiel stared at his hands, which were clutched into fists at his sides, nestled into the gravel of the cave's floor.

"I understand then. Here." He passed Dean the satchel he had packed with the waterskin, and his blade. "I doubt this will save you, but you are welcome to it." He stood up briskly and walked towards the mouth of the cave again, letting his wings loosen at his back once again in preparation for flight.

He clenched his jaw once he was out of Dean's sight, fighting the burn that he felt behind his eyes. This whole enterprise had been for nothing then. He was far closer to oblivion than he had been before, and with nothing to show for it. Dean would die before he could reach a city. If he weren't eaten, it would be from dehydration or infection. His city would be left without a leader and his brother without a family.

And Castiel would be alone too, only now equipped with a tantalizing reminder of how it felt to be otherwise. Maybe, in time, he'd come to believe it had been worth it. Not for trying to save a human, but for bringing him closer to the Change. Consciousness of his circumstance was fast becoming too much of a burden. If he was going to suffer insanity, he might prefer that of his brothers and sisters. At least they were with one another in the darkness.

"Wait."

Dean's voice was light, and uncertain. Castiel stopped, but he didn't turn around.

"Look… I'm sorry. When I saw… I,… I was… I didn't know what to think. I've spent almost my whole life learning to fight and kill those things."

Castiel closed his eyes, a knot twisting his stomach at the thought that his brothers and sisters might be so spoken of. _Things_.

"When I saw your…" Dean cleared his throat, and enunciated the word like he couldn't believe he was saying it "_wings_… all I could think of was them and the way they attacked my men. And I was… I've seen those things tear people apart."

Castiel turned his head, so he could see Dean out the corner of his eye. Dean was hanging his head, and he was still squeezing at his injured thigh.

"When you train to be a soldier, you learn to kill first, ask questions later… I should have… I should have asked the questions, and not just treated you like one of them."

He looked up and met Castiel's gaze, nervously, and he licked his lips before he spoke: "I want to ask questions now."

"Why?" Castiel whispered. He turned and kept his eyes on Dean, feeling a tremble in his hands.

"I guess I didn't think about the danger you put yourself in, to rescue me. I wasn't grateful the way I should have been. I just wanted to get back to my men and Sammy."

"And now?"

"Last night. You saved me. _Again_. Whatever you are, I owe you my life."

The _whatever you are_ stung at Castiel and he felt a tingle in wings, as he became aware of how heavy they hung on his back. A barrier between him and the only species left he could find any companionship with.

"You still think of me as less than human, then?"

"No! No, not less. Just different."

Dean pulled himself forwards to Castiel, dragging his leg on the ground and biting his lip as he scraped himself on the gravel.

"Cas. I want you to tell me what you are. And I won't freak out this time."

"What's Cas?"

Dean started for a moment. "It's a shortened version of you name. When humans trust one another, we give each other special names."

"You trust me?"

"I… want to try to."

Castiel dropped his face to conceal his smile. "Thank you, De."

"De.?" Dean mouth curled, and he ceased moving across the ground.

"It's a shortened version of your name. Like you said. To show that I will trust you too."

Dean gave a nervous but genuine smile. "Let's keep Dean, Cas. Everyone always calls me Captain, or Slayer anyway. Dean can be your nickname for me."

"If that's what you would prefer."

Dean snickered: "Trust me, it really is."

Castiel nodded and walked back to Dean, still keeping his wings self-consciously folded against his back. When he reached Dean, he crouched beside the wounded leg and reached towards Dean's thigh. He kept his eyes on Dean's as his fingers grazed the wound. If Dean was affronted by the contact without permission, he didn't show it.

"So, uh…, where do we start?"

"What?" Castiel's fingers traced the outline of the bandage, and he felt for dampness.

"With you… explaining what you are?"

"I think we start by taking you back to my cottage immediately, Dean. I need to assess your leg."

Dean's eyes widened. "Will it be alright? It's kind of important in my line of work, you know?"

He hissed as Castiel pressed too hard on a tender part.

"I am unsure whether I will have to stitch the wound closed again. Either way, I would prefer to have it out of this filthy cave. I don't think you'd survive a second infection."

"Shit. Do you have anything to clean it up with now?"

"No." Castiel's mouth twitched in a smile. "Unless you would allow me to urinate on it again."

"OH! Ah, no… thank you. Friends don't piss on friends, Cas."

"Alright. But in that case, we need to start travelling straight away."

"Yeah. That's fine. Just let me…" He stopped in his shuffling and stared up at Castiel, horrorstruck. "Wait. What did you mean, _again_?"

Castiel took in his gaping mouth and repulsed expression. "I think as friends I would do best not to talk about that."

"Oh God! That's-" He caught himself and swallowed his disgust "Thanks Cas, you probably saved my life with that. Uh….but let's never mention it again."

Castiel didn't' even acknowledge the statement, but instead turned to the right of Dean, where his few weapons and satchel were laid out across the ground. He quickly assembled them and slid the weapons into their relevant pouches efficiently through force of habit. He felt Dean's eyes on his hands as he worked, but Dean made no comment, and stayed completely still for the duration of the activity.

When he was prepared, and he had once again turned his gaze to Dean, Dean only responded with a sheepish grin. He gestured weakly to his leg.

"Guess I'm a bit ill-disposed to travel."

Even though the wound had clotted, Dean's utter reluctance to move it from the same position that he had established it at that morning demonstrated its true incapacity.

"Is your mare nearby?"

"Yeah. Uh, other passage."

The mare came when Castiel whistled, as she had those nights ago in the forest. Still saddled, Castiel worried about the drying sweat beneath the leather. She was already suffering from sores. Nonetheless, with Dean in his state, Castiel had very limited chance for concern. The mare could recover later, when they were returned to his cottage.

The trip was long and arduous. Castiel all but lifted Dean onto the mare's back, and he hung over her awkwardly, head on one side and legs on the other, for some time, until Castiel was able to right him.

Dean tired quickly. The trip took most of the day, and they travelled slowly. Last time, since Dean had been unconscious, Castiel had been able to travel at a breakneck pace, knowing Dean would be largely unaware of the pain. Now though, with Dean entirely awake and alert, he was privy to every little maneuver that caused Dean pain.

Atop Impala, Dean went through stages. At first, he stifled his protests by biting his lip and closing his eyes tight. When he tired of that, after several hours, Castiel was treated to a number of grunts and complaints, most of which he ignored, until Dean eventually fell silent, his body clearly realizing the redundancy of making its dissatisfaction evident.

Mercifully, they managed to return to Castiel's cottage just after nightfall. They were awake for several hours cleaning and stitching the wound, which was carried out in an entirely exhausted silence. Dean was half-asleep by the time Castiel helped him back into the nest and wrapped the furs around him. Dean halted him with a touch to the arm and they bickered briefly about who should sleep in the nest. Eventually Dean settled, but he pressed one of the furs of the nest towards Cas and indicated he should curl up into it on the floor, rather than press his wings uncomfortably against the chair in the corner of the room.

Castiel was first to fall asleep, despite Dean's having suffered a far more draining day than he had. Through blearly eyes, as he drifted off quickly, he caught a glimpse of Dean's eyes wandering the expanse of his wings as they were wrapped around his body. This time, there was nervousness, and wariness, but the terror and hatred was gone. It was a blissful thought, that there might yet be trust to be had between them, before Castiel fell into a deep sleep almost akin to oblivion.

…

In the morning, Dean woke Castiel with his promised questions and only a vaguely apologetic expression. Castiel was still exhausted, not having had the chance to sleep in the cave as Dean had, and he grumpily handed Dean the account he had recorded on parchment ten years ago, before busying himself with preparing their breakfast, in lieu of being forced to exercise an exhausted voice. The account of Castiel, he who was once an Angel of the Lord. A miserable tale, and something he'd have preferred leaving until later in the day. Certainly, the thought of visiting its contents deprived him of any significant appetite.

When he was seated, with stale bread and dried fruit as their meal, Dean looked up from the parchment with wide eyes. "Cas. This is… I'm sorry."

Castiel swallowed, and set about dividing their lots.

"Thank you, Dean. Your compassion is a comfort."

Dean squinted at him, almost studiously, and Castiel was forced to look away, instead focusing his energy on cutting the stiff bread and laying it unceremoniously upon Dean's plate. Dean ignored the offering, instead setting the parchment beside him carefully, and rubbing the top left corner of this page between his thumb and forefinger.

"When… when did you write this?"

Castiel laid the breadknife beside him and set about arranging his own meal on his plate. It was a paltry sight.

"Only recently, but long after I separated from the last of my brothers. I don't recall the exact date."

He did, actually. But he made no mention of that. Existential desperation was not his preferred subject so early in the morning.

Dean's exhalation of breath was a little shaky and when Castiel looked up at him. His jaw, which was hanging open slightly, gave a slight quiver, before abruptly shutting. Dean blushed a little, as though he had been caught doing something wrong.

"Do you know if any of them are still… around?"

"We have had no contact. I have not seen them in the form of the Angels in this forest. They may yet still have Grace."

Staring at the parchment, Dean ran his thumb back and forth across his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was oddly muted, as though he were speaking through something.

"How long do you have left?"

Castiel sighed and set his bread back down upon his plate, not having yet taken a bite. Likely now, it would end up becoming a meal for the birds of the forest. His stomach had already forfeited it, and it churned instead, like hot ash was brewing there.

"I don't know. From what I understand, there is something of an ache before the Grace depletes, and some feel weaker. But sometimes, others are taken unawares. I have been careful since I have lived here. I have only used it in exceptional cases."

Dean swallowed and met Castiel's eyes. They were glistening: "You used some of it on me, didn't you?"

Castiel looked away and folded his hands neatly across his lap. Dean was quick. "Only a little. Healing comes naturally to Angels, so it wasn't too difficult." Even to himself, the lie was clear in his voice, which rose in its register and lost a little of its usual rumble. He expected, even if that weren't the case, his carefully blank expression would raise Dean's suspicions. "I used enough to purify your blood. You were dead otherwise. But I stopped short of properly closing the wound."

Dean breathed out his name: "_Cas_."

They sat in silence for several minutes, during which Dean's eyes did not move from Castiel's face and Castiel stiffened under the examination.

"Thank you." Dean finally spoke up. At first, his voice was so small that it was barely discernible, and he cleared his throat: "Thank you for saving me, despite what it might have cost you."

Castiel smiled and pushed Dean's plate towards him. "I was glad of it, Dean. I have felt impotent for too long."

They were silent for much longer after that. Castiel even stood up for a while and prepared some tea for the pair of them, while Dean stared out the window at the dull winter light through the frosted grass.

When Castiel returned to the table, and set down Dean's tea in front of him, he murmured: "I don't want you to feel under any obligation to me."

"Huh?"

"I saved you because I saw the inspiration you brought to your men. You are a strong leader, Dean. As soon as you are well, I want you to return to your city and continue to serve. You don't owe me anything beyond your best efforts to let your body heal."

Dean looked away from Castiel, and swallowed wearily. "Yeah Cas, if that's what you want."

There was a longer silence. Eventually, Dean picked up the parchment again, and read through it, his lips moving as he stumbled over the words. After a few minutes he stopped on a sentence, and looked up curiously at Castiel.

"What do you mean here: _We did not know then that it was not enough to save them?_ What were you trying to do?"

Castiel pressed the back of his palm to his mouth and breathed in heavily. Dean watched him carefully, and his mouth twitched several times before he spoke again.

"In the cave, you said you doubted that I'd killed your kind. Why would you…? You know what that means don't you?"

He gestured to the clotheshorse at the back of the room, where Dean's leather armor had been left to dry. The mark of the slayer, in red and black, faced towards the ceiling – a broadsword crossed atop of a ragged black feather.

Castiel swallowed and moved his hand to rub at his neck, feeling the hairs there bristle at the question. "I do."

"Then…"

"I'm sure you suspect my meaning already."

Dean's mouth shut and his brow furrowed. "It's not possible."

"No. It isn't."

"Then how?"

"I don't know."

Dean stared down at the table.

"My brothers and I, we speculated as to how such a thing could happen. And we experimented, for a long while."

"You killed them?"

"Many. In variously and increasingly finite ways."

"How did you know that they came back?"

Castiel replaced his palm at his mouth and inhaled carefully, willfully suppressing the stutters in his breathing that spoke to the shivering that had overtaken his body. When he spoke, he spoke through his hand at first, until Dean titled his head at him quizzically and he was forced to remove it.

"There are some, those who I was connected to closely before they… I can still recognize them, even in their forms. I think my Grace… knows them. They're unrecognizable otherwise."

Dean stared at him and didn't answer.

"In the early days, we took them down wherever we could. We'd hoped to spare their torment."

Castiel ran his thumb across his own cheek absently, feeling where the skin was swollen beneath his eyelids from lack of sleep.

"We would hold funerals for them. In imitation of your human custom. Some humans even helped us."

Dean turned to look out the window at that.

"When they reappeared, we thought we were mad. We killed some again even and told ourselves they were others. Eventually, it grew too much to explain and my brother, Gabriel, witnessed it for himself."

"How?"

Dean's voice cracked, but he kept his eyes firmly at the window.

"He killed a creature and watched it. It took days, but eventually… it awoke. As though no harm had ever been done to it."

Dean swallowed and Castiel felt himself imitate the gesture.

"We kept that one with us. We tried to decimate it more thoroughly. There were many attempts each more aggressive than the last. We cut it apart, and nailed it down. We burned it and spread its ashes in the ocen."

This time Dean visibly swallowed bile.

"We'd wait for weeks. And then, all at once, it would be whole again, and seething. Everytime we tried, our brother came back more insane and more vicious. Eventually, we buried him under an avalanche in the mountains, for we were afraid what he might do."

"Did he?"

"I saw him, a few years ago."

Dean retched properly this time, and Castiel fetched an empty waste bucket. There was nothing in Dean's stomach to empty, but he spat up acid, and when he found himself fit to speak, its scratch was evident in his voice.

"There must be a…"

"None that I know of. I ripped them apart and buried the pieces, miles and miles away from one another. I beat them until they were nothing but pulp."

"But…"

"The Gates of Heaven are closed, Dean."

"What?"

"They're closed. I believe that's why they stay. There's simply nowhere for them to go."

Dean retched again, and Castiel tentatively made to touch his back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. While he spat out frothy saliva, Castiel continued. There was no point prolonging the inevitable explanation.

"I suspect that they are bound to their forms. They cannot exist incorporeally, because in their true form, they necessarily have to exist across multiple dimensions. No one dimension is enough to contain them unless they are restricted in a body's form. Without access to heaven, there is only one dimension which they may inhabit."

"What?"

"They are unbridled power and divinity, Dean. If they were to exist in their entirety here, the order of the universe would be disturbed. The sea would meet the sky, and the ground would combust. Everything here exists in a delicate, perfect balance. Even a minor disturbance would be catastrophic."

Dean coughed up phlegm this time.

When he spoke, his voice was but a rattle: "how can they reassemble themselves though? I thought they had no Grace?"

"They do not. I do not know… The human body performs the most remarkable healing. If you could not die, I imagine even the most grievous wounds would heal eventually."

"Not everything."

"Sorry?"

Dean wiped at his mouth and looked up from the base of the bucket. "It can't heal everything. I mean, if I took off your arm, it wouldn't grow back. How can they… re-attach themselves? It's not possible."

"I don't know. I don't…"

Castiel sat slowly and kneaded at his temples with his free hand, the other still at Dean's back. Dean hadn't objected to its presence, but Castiel now felt frozen there, unsure of the appropriate time to withdraw.

Dean swallowed warily and set the bucket down. He ignored Castiel's gesturing to his still full cup of tea and instead took to staring at him.

"I'm sorry, Cas."

Castiel looked up, and he watched Dean for a long while, who kindly returned his gaze until Castiel eventually looked away and busied himself cleaning the plates they had barely used. Dean attempted to help him from his seated position, but could do little more than push the plates and cups together into the centre of the table. He took to staring out the window again while Castiel replaced the still-consumable dried fruit in his stores and assembled the stale bread as scraps. When he took the empty water bucket and made his way to the door, he and Dean both turned to gaze at each other for a few seconds. There was an understanding there, perhaps the first understanding they had come to since Dean's arrival at the cottage. There was nothing more that could be said on the matter.

…

It was the last time they spoke of Castiel's sacrifice or his circumstance while Dean was staying with him, on that particular visit. Neither knew what to say. They both knew that what Castiel had done for Dean was profound, in light of the horrors that awaited him. But for all of that, they barely knew each other.

In being so unable to discuss what Castiel had done, it created an awkwardness at first. Dean was shy about asking Castiel for help in standing and sitting from his bed. And Castiel was nervous to assist him without his request. He could tell that Dean felt like he owed too much already, and every little service that Castiel performed seemed to weigh on his stature heavily. Perhaps it was the injury, but he took increasingly to sitting curled up in the bed, shoulders hunched and head hanging. His gaze was aimless and his face gormless, and for some time, it seemed some part of him had died.

Eventually, Dean became more talkative again. They only discussed trivialities – how Castiel organized his winter stores, how he'd designed the fake sigils that adorned their accommodation to trick the Angels from entry, and where he liked to hunt and gather in the forest.

Those topics created an easier relationship. And they enabled Dean to volunteer.

He told Castiel about Sam, and how he'd virtually raised him while his Father was on the Road. He explained how Sam had been taught his letters by a remarkable healer woman who lived on the outskirts of the City – Missouri – and he had in turn taught Dean, late at night, after Dean's soldier's training. Dean couldn't contain his pride at Sam's position as a scribe in the court – since he was not noble by birth, his selection had been virtually unprecedented. He moaned about Ruby to - the courtier that had caught Sam's eye. They weren't betrothed yet, and Dean was convinced that Sam could be brought to his senses. Though he worried about leaving him under her influence for so long.

"Is it betrothal of the lady in question that you object to?" Castiel inquired, cocking his head and squinting at Dean. Dean had described Ruby using a number of slang terms that Castiel was not familiar with. The venom with which Dean spoke suggested he did not see Ruby in a favourable light, although Castiel had been unable to discern the reason.

"Sammy's always wanted it. And that's fine for him. But with that bitch… Huh. It's more like a death sentence."

"I take it you are not betrothed then?"

Dean smirked at him. "I enjoy the perks of being an unattached man, Cas. It'd need to be someone pretty spectacular to tempt me from my wicked ways."

He waggled his eyebrows at Cas knowingly.

Castiel wasn't in the know though and his brow furrowed. "What do you do that is so wicked?"

"You know, Cas…" Dean winked again, and he clicked his tongue twice. At Castiel's lack of response, he dropped his gaze awkwardly and instead took a swig of the mead Castiel had provided for him (Castiel had once recovered a few bottles from a raid, but had never found occasion to use them. Upon their discovery in Castiel's stores, however, Dean had convinced him to try the substance. Castiel had no taste for it, and Dean had volunteered to remove the burden from him).

"Are you referring to intercourse?"

Dean spat his drink out across the table at Castiel. A few flecks of spittle made their way to Castiel's face, and his eyelids twitched in self-defense. At first Castiel didn't react, but when Dean looked appalled, he wiped the droplets away quickly.

"Well, yeah. But when you say it like that, it sounds a lot less fun."

Castiel paused for a moment. "Intercourse is a bad thing, amongst humans?"

Dean laughed out loud and took another drink from his tankard. "No. God no. It's the best thing. But some in the City would disagree with me. They act like it's a sin."

"You don't agree?"

"Pft. If it were a sin it wouldn't be so damn awesome."

Castiel gave a small nod, unsure of the appropriate response to this evident camaraderie. It appeared Dean assumed he had partaken in the activity. Whether it was appropriate to reveal that this was not the case was less certain.

"So there is no human you would wish to be paired with?"

Dean furrowed his brow at Castiel, and leaned back in his chair, eyes cast downward.

"I don't know… I always figured I'd have to eventually, even if it's just so that I don't tarnish the family name for Sammy." He chuckled darkly. "There's a difference between choosing a woman to wake up to for one morning, and one to wake up to for the rest of your life."

"I understand."

"There's one girl. I kinda always figured she'd be the one to pin me down." His eyes flickered to Castiel and he smirked. "That wasn't meant to be a pun."

"What is her name?"

Dean started fiddling with his fingers, picking at the skin around the nails nervously. "Jo. Well, Joanna. We've known each other since we were kids. She works at the local alehouse. Her mother owns it. Father died on the Road."

"Do you love her?"

Dean spluttered, and he quickly picked up his tankard again, resuming an air of careful masculinity. "No! I mean… she's like a sister, you know? An annoying one. When I started training, she used to climb on the ramparts and watch. We'd practice together afterwards. And she'd kick my ass seven ways to Sunday."

"Are women not allowed to train as soldiers? That is a waste of their abilities."

Dean grinned and took another drink.

"You know, that's what she says. As far as I'm concerned it's a loss to the service. She's quicker 'n deadlier than most of the men I lead."

As Dean finished, his eyes widened, and Castiel realized he was remembering that most of those men were now dead. Dean dropped his eyes to his hands again, and became very interested in the skin on his thumb. To save Dean the mortification of having spoken ill of the dead, Castiel quickly carried on the conversation.

"Perhaps when you return, you should ask her. A woman like that would be highly desired by Angels."

Dean laughed again. "Most men wouldn't go near Jo. They like 'em pretty and dainty, you know? Not that she isn't… pretty. I don't know… I just…"

"What?"

Dean's eyes flickered up to meet Castiel's and he smiled disingenuously, the edge of his mouth twitching over his exposed teeth.

"Maybe I just figure someone ought to offer her more, you know? She's a great girl. And I'm on the Road most of the year. That's where it all is for me, you know. All I want is to protect my people. The Road is who I am… Anyway, if I ever get back there, things will be different."

"Why?"

"Before I left, the Empress. She, uh- … well she kissed me. Called it her '_favor_' and said I was to bring it back to her." Dean's eyes flickered back to the contents of his tankard while he spoke.

Castiel contemplated the explanation momentarily: "Is that a flirtation?"

Dean laughed openly at that and he met Castiel's gaze properly again, eyes dancing with amusement. "Yeah, Cas, you know, I think it is."

"Do you like her?"

Dean grinned.

"Well…uh…. I mean, she's the Empress. Most beautiful woman in the whole kingdom and all of that. If she says jump, you don't even get to ask 'how high?'. You just do. And if she says, 'get in my underthings', well…"

"Regardless, would you want to marry her?"

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Uh…. I don't know. It's not really about that. I mean, the guy who marries the Empress becomes the Leader of the Guard. Not just for Ardus, but for the entire kingdom. It's the top of the pile."

"Would you want that position?"

This time both of Dean's eyebrows jumped, and he smiled again.

"Well, yeah! You know, I'd help train the young kids. Stop Alastair teaching them to be so brutal. Could really make a difference in saving their lives, you know? They might all stop dying before they're 30."

"That would be a significant achievement."

Dean pursed his lips.

"Yeah, well. We'll see. She'll probably have forgotten all about me by the time I get back to things anyway."

"You're not that easy to forget, Dean."

Dean looked up, and caught his eye, a question there, but one he was clearly unwilling to ask. He waited for a moment, before clearing his throat and changing the subject. Castiel was grateful. He didn't know why he'd said that, but he regretted making Dean uncomfortable. He had meant what he said about wanting Dean to return to Ardus, much as he enjoyed his company.

"So what about you, Cas? Were there any Angels lucky enough to catch your eye?"

"No."

Dean withdrew a little, as though surpised.

"Just like that? No?"

"Intercourse isn't an Angel priority. There are some who participate, but… I never had the occasion."

Dean made the same incredulous expression, but this time leaned forward, eyes curious.

"Why would you need that?"

Dean took a sip of his mead.

"For most Angels, intercourse is a precursor to mating. I wasn't prepared to take a mate." He paused, watching Dean's face searchingly "I never had an interest in any humans either."

Dean spat his drink again, although this time he was more careful to contain the spittle and most of it landed on the floor, rather than Castiel's face. "Angels had sex with humans?"

Castiel chuckled a little at Dean's horrified expression, although the chuckle died with the flicker of disgust that crossed Dean's face. Dean masked it carefully, and, blushing, turned to stare out the window again and he rubbed at his nose anxiously.

"A long time ago, before they took upon their changed form obviously. They weren't very common. Many Angels believed your kind to be unclean. But there were a few instances… One of my brothers was… uh, _very _fond of your kind."

One of Dean's eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead but he didn't answer.

"So, you never… "

"I told you, I never found a mate."

"Yeah, but…oh, don't worry about it."

When Castiel tilted his head, and searched Dean's face for an indication as to the reason for his amusement, Dean blushed faintly and dropped his gaze.

"Thanks for breakfast, Cas. This is great."

They were silent after that, and Castiel was unsure why.

…

After breakfast, Castiel informed Dean of his need to hunt for fresh kill, and indicated to Dean through the window the direction into the forest at which is feeding post was set up.

Dean observed silently, but as Castiel assembled his weapons he asked, almost uncertainly: "Why do you feed them?"

Castiel raised his eyebrows. He knew that years ago, Slayers on the Road had been unaware of the difference providing the Angels with sustenance made. And, from observing Dean's party, he knew the practice was still not normalized. But Dean was resourceful, and he was somewhat surprised he had not made the connection.

"It keeps them calm. When they know the food is coming, they stay away from the Road, and their attack instinct seems to lessen. I do it for your protection, and others like you."

Dean whistled low and long.

"How'd you even get near enough to get some food to one?"

Castiel slid his dagger into a holster at his thigh.

"Largely by the same strategy you use on the Road. Stay quiet and unarmed. If the presence does not appear to be a threat, they will tend to let it be. Unless they are very hungry. I found, if I was careful in my presence, I could develop a kind of trust with them."

"Really?"

"There have been occasions where that has not been the case. They are mostly animal now. They will react as animals do to stimuli. Sometimes, they are unpredictable."

He pulled back his fur from his bare chest and showed Dean the cross-hatching of scars along his chest and belly. It was the Angels preferred attack point – they were most attracted to the innards, and they would often try to take them before their host was even dead.

"But, I've been here for a long time. There's a group that nests around this area. They are, for the most part, tame. At least to my presence."

"It worked on those Angels in the forest too."

"That was lucky. They could just have easily have attacked you."

Dean nodded and looked at his hand, which was currently engaged in fiddling with the bandage at his bare thigh. Castiel covered himself and turned back to his equipment, speaking casually over his shoulder to Dean.

"I chose to try because it was the only option I had. After I realized that they could re-animate, there was no option of putting them to death."

He heard Dean exhale carefully and deliberately. Castiel ignored it and continued.

"At first I thought they were purely animal, and there was no hope. It wasn't until I killed, well, I tried to kill one that I thought there might be a little hope."

"Why?" Dean turned to look at his warily.

"The thing was stalking me in the forest. I'd spread out my wings, in hoping of scaring her off with my size…"Dean snorted, but Castiel didn't understand the joke. "But she was unperturbed. She must have been very hungry."

Dean was still chortling, and Castiel ruffled his wings in irritation. This was a serious story, and one that caused him great pain to tell. However he had amused Dean, he wanted it to end.

"What is funny?"

"Your size, it's just… Usually when humans talk like that, they're kind of …" He stopped swallowed down his laughter, but his eyes were still dancing at Castiel with amusement. "I'm sorry. Continue. This is a very serious story. I'm listening." His mouth twitched with a smile that was threatening to escape and start of his laughter again, but he hid it with the rub of his thumb down the side of his mouth.

"I am rather large by Angel standards, Dean. It was a legitimate strategic move." Dean didn't hear the second sentence though, he was suppressing another bout of laughter.

Irritated, Castiel stood up and left out the front door. He knew it wasn't entirely Dean's fault. Whatever he'd said was obviously amusing. He should usually be pleased to have provoked such a response out of Dean. Castiel knew he missed Sam, and worried for his surviving men without his leadership. He could see it in the defeated slump of his shoulders when he thought that Castiel wasn't looking.

To see Dean laugh, and to take some joy from his time with Castiel, offered a lot of warmth to him. When Dean smiled, he felt the sense of achievement pulse throughout his whole body. He just wished it hadn't been when he was recalling what had happened to him, when he was feeling such another mix of emotions entirely, that he was usually afraid to consider.

"Hey Cas, wait! I'm sorry."

He turned and saw Dean hobbling feebly down the stairs. He was walking on his injured leg stiffly – the cold was causing him difficulty in recovery, and he complained of an ache most days. The sight of him hurrying after Castiel, with such an ungainly limp, was a little pathetic. And it was enough to quickly turn Castiel's feelings of hurt to sympathy. He was back to Dean quickly.

"Dean, don't exert yourself. Sit down."

He lowered Dean to the bottom step, but Dean yelped and pushed himself up almost at once.

"Cas, it's the middle of winter. I'm gonna freeze my ass off if I sit on that!"

"Oh… here." Castiel pulled his fur off and laid it on the stair. He watched Dean look away from his bare chest pointedly.

"Just take a moment to rest the leg. We can go inside in a minute."

Dean nodded but didn't look back at him, completely intrigued by the icy grass at his feet. Once the fur was set down, Castiel wrapped his wings around himself in the kind of cocoon that he slept in. The coverage seemed to make Dean feel better and he lowered himself beside Castiel on the stair.

"Are you alright, Cas? I'm sorry for laughing. Whatever happened, I want to hear about it. If you'll let me."

"Yes. Yes of course."

Dean shuffled closer to him, to fit better on the stair. It really wasn't made to sit two men of their stature, especially with the bulk of Castiel's wings. But he was careful to stop just short of bumping against Castiel. Castiel could feel the tickle of the fur he was wearing against the outer feathers, however.

"I uh… I tried to scare the Angel away, but she had none of it. I tried to stay still, but she was stalking. It was only a matter of time before she attacked."

Dean nodded and kept his mouth in a grim line. His eyes were wide and entirely focused on Castiel.

"I made a choice and drew my blade. That was enough to provoke her to attack."

He stopped and looked out and the winter vista before him, swallowing down the burst of emotion that threatened to breach him before he continued.

"It was a rough fight. She was tired and hungry, but that made her more aggressive. She's responsible for these."

He let his left wrist out of the cocoon of his wings and showed Dean the three parallel lines running up the inside of his forearm.

"I overpowered her, eventually. Although it cost a lot. In the end, I slit her throat."

Dean nodded solemnly and looked up at Castiel. His eyes were wide and attentive.

"Even though she attacked me, I regretted having to kill her. At that time, I didn't know she would eventually return, and have to inhabit that same body that I had wrecked so thoroughly. But I knew she had once been one of my own, and even then, I was not certain that the gates of heaven would re-open for her. I could have sent her to Hell, or Purgatory."

Dean swallowed. "So they're both real too then?"

"Yes. I am sure you will never have to see either, though."

Dean chuckled. "That's nice of you to say."

"I'm not lying. You're a good soul, Dean."

Dean looked up at him, and his mouth dropped open, like he might say something. But he closed it again and withdrew, shuffling minutely away from Castiel.

"Did you see her re-animate? Is that what changed your mind?"

"No. It would have taken her a while to recover from that wound. I recognized her later."

He sighed.

"I stayed with her. I don't know why. I suppose I was curious. Usually, I killed the Angels more instantaneously than that. I'd never seen one up close and still alive."

He scrunched his eyes shut, as though trying to close them to the memory of her open and weeping throat. As she had tried to screech at him, it pulsed and more blood would pour down the black and rank feathers covering her body.

"She was trying to screech. And curse me, in her own way, I suppose. But she couldn't speak. She tried though. It was hideous…. Right before she died though, she reached for me. I thought she would rip my face off. But… she retracted her claws. And she just held it. Like… I suppose, a lover might hold the face of another."

His voice cracked.

"There was an Angel that used to hold my face like that. She was a sister, and one of my most beloved. Angels aren't supposed to prefer each other, but we always did… When she reached out like that, I knew it had once been her. And then I could see her in the creature's eyes. Just a glimpse…"

He broke off as Dean reached out and clapped his hand below Castiel's neck, right above where his wings emerged.

"It was only a moment, right before she died. But… to be reminded that she was still there… It gave me hope that the creatures couldn't be all hurt and chaos. Anna was so pure, and so good. She gave up her life – her first life – for a human, when I couldn't."

He wrapped his wings tighter about himself, shivering a little in an attempt to suppress his emotion.

"Anna was one of your hunting party?"

"Yes. Amongst others… she was very strong. A leader in our garrison when Heaven was open. When we lost her, I suspected I would be next."

He hung his head so that his chin rested against his wings and his feathers tickled against his chin.

"I'm so sorry, Cas."

Castiel turned his head slowly to where Dean watched him intently, eyes crinkled at the edges, and his lips twitching a little at the left edge.

"Thank you, Dean. It has… been a long time since I had company. Your being here, and listening to me, has brought me much relief."

Dean sighed and looked out at the vista before them, and then upwards at the sky when the first flake of snow began to fall upon them. One caught on the tip of his nose, and he went cross-eyed to observe it. Grinning, he turned to Castiel, with the exhilaration of a child. Castiel smiled and chuckled as Dean attempted to blow it off, only succeeding in producing a strange array of spitting noises.

Eventually, he succeeded and raised his arms in what Castiel could only assume was a grand celebration of success.

"Well done."

Dean laughed openly at him. "You're a sarcastic bastard, Cas."

Even though it was cold, and Dean's leg was evidently stiffening in the temperature, they stayed outside a while longer, while Dean showed Castiel a game he had learned as a child – catching snowflakes upon the tip of his tongue. Dean was immobile with his leg, so it was no long before he conceded and pronounced Castiel the victor. Even in the cold, and with a shiver creeping into his wings, Castiel didn't remember much of the afternoon, aside from the bright smile upon Dean's face and the pinch of red in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose as he chortled and grinned underneath the fall of the snow. The memory stayed with a long while after Dean left.

…

**2013**

When Castiel finished Dean was staring brazenly again. He could have been doing so for a matter of hours, and Castiel would have barely noticed, for with every description and turn of the narrative he withdrew further into its contents, so that by the time he finished speaking the stormy, grey face of the Dean before him was entirely obscured by the memory of Dean's eye's dancing at him, even under the dull grey light of winter.

When he realised their circumstance, it was he who started and looked away from Dean automatically, concerned at provoking a further incident of aggravation or horror. But unlike the previous days, Dean made no move to leave immediately upon the completion of his required attendance.

"Did you know then, Cas?"

"Sorry?"

Sam's voice crackled with the surprise of being used for the first time in hours, and the first phrase was barely discernible through the vibration of phlegm that had gathered in his throat during the duration of his silence.

"Did you now then, how you felt about Dean?"

Castiel's eyes darted back to Dean's before he could stop himself, and this time it was Dean who quickly looked down at his hands and crossed his arms across his chest.

"No. Not at all. I was glad of his company but... I didn't know."

"Did he?"

"Even less, I believe."

The corners of Jessica's mouth twitched: "you were both idiots."

"I don't doubt it. But there were a number of obstacles to realization of that. Not aside from what Dean had already spoken with me about."

"That girl, Jo?"

Castiel nodded: "a little, although that changed quickly."

She grinned at him and winked. Sam caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye and looked at her incredulously. She shrugged one shoulder at him: "what?"

The ensuing awkwardness that resulted from their brief staring match was enough to provoke the others to bring an end to the evening. Jessica left quickly, promising she'd be back early the next morning to hear the continuation, and Bobby followed suit, grumbling tiredly.

Dean, surprisingly, took his time vacating the seat, and he moved slowly, almost stickily, rather than with the alert, sharp movements that had characterised his behaviour the past few days. He made for the door in silence, and it wasn't until he had opened it and stood upon its threshold that he turned back to the room and spoke as though he were speaking to its entire contents, rather than the two men waiting expectantly before him: "uh... night."

And then he shut the door, and there was a little too much force so that it slammed and made the window beside it rattle.

Sam waited awkwardly for a minute before speaking: "I'm gonna hit the hay. You'll be alright?"

Castiel nodded and adjusted himself in the seat, so that his wings were spread over its arms comfortably, demonstrating his intention to stay there.

"Good. Uh, see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight Keith."

It was a quicker night than before and Castiel may have even slept a little out of habit, rather than need, after the group left. He was certainly awake in the early hours of the morning though, and spent that time in contemplation of Dean's eyes upon him as he told their story. He was unsure as to the meaning behind Dean's sudden fascination with the tale, or his change in attitude towards Castiel. Certainly, there was no indication of remembering there, but there was confusion and wariness. Castiel doubted he was close to touching Dean's soul yet, however much it pained him to witness the strange Dean before him, who seemed burdened with a suffering unknown to Castiel. Still, the promise that tomorrow might bring further changes, and more time in each other's company was enough, and that thought buoyed Castiel until Sam stirred again after dawn as he waited patiently for anther audience with Dean.


	9. As You Burn

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**AN: Massive apologies that this update was delayed so significantly as it was. I was away over Christmas and New Years at the wonderful little beachside settlement I am lucky enough to visit every year. While the local library did have wifi on offer, it was rather ragged after it was assaulted by the armies of tweens and their multitude of instagram related needs. My one attempt to upload was entirely ill-fated, and after several aborted events with a temperamental connection, I had to call it a day and wait for a later opportunity. Please, take these 11,964 words as apology. I wrote them allll for you, my preciouses.**

**The good news is that my extended time away means I now have a buffer of ten chapters pre-written (although requiring substantial editing) – uploads will therefore certainly continue weekly from now on until the conclusion of this work. Even better, I have written SMUT – guys, it will happen, I promise! I know... these two, they're so inept. And I was pushing and prodding them to have the feels for one another for two weeks of intense writing, and they were very reluctant to admit ANYTHING! Considering they're so blatantly in love with one another, it should have been simple. But nooooo, they just kept staring at one another thinking: "Gosh, my purely platonic pal is awesome. I'm so glad for our utterly familial relationship". Idjits. But I suppose that is why we love them – the naive suspense is utterly endearing.**

**For those of you that were interested, an update re: our wee stray (now "Billy", being that he is a very silly billy). He found temporary accommodation at a shelter a few hours from our home with a very kind friend, and has since been passed on again to a potential home (pending his capacity to go off leash). There has been other interest in his adoption failing that, and his foster mother was utterly enamoured of him, so she is sure a home will be forthcoming. We're so so happy he's safe and will find the kind of love and attention he deserves. Although we were devastated to part with such a gorgeous fellow, we left him very happily flirting with all the toy poodles at his foster home and feeling optimistic for his future – far better than he would have hoped for at that intersection. I hope I will have happy love family very soon.**

...

**2013**

Dean was not prompt the next morning, but he was not so late that Jessica contemplated making good on her threat of damaging Dean's wagon. The group had just finished breakfasting – Castiel this time enjoying the creation a little more, since Sam had only been allowed limited input by Bobby – when there was a tentative knock at the door.

Despite his early appearance, without protest, Dean's demeanour was still stony. He conceded only a small "Morning", more in Jessica's direction than in anyone else's, before stiffly crossing the room and seating himself in the same position as always, directly opposite from Castiel, staring at his hands.

The group however, didn't ready themselves to suit Dean's schedule, instead carrying on with cleaning in the kitchen, and leaving Dean entirely at the mercy of Castiel's unwavering gaze. Dean appeared to imagine himself having entirely committed to his position, for despite his numerous nervous glances towards the kitchen and back to Castiel, he made no move to join them.

It may have been that Jessica had deliberately positioned herself close the doorway, and would have blocked Dean's entering that room to some extent. However, her back was to him and she was distracted laughing at Sam's having overcompensated with what she called "dishwashing liquid", which had resulted in a mountain of white froth overflowing from table and spreading itself in clumps across the floor. Bobby, sandwiched in between them, with a rag in hand, could not have glowered more severely at his circumstance.

Dean, albeit more relaxed, still studiously avoided acknowledging Castiel properly. But he was less aware of the minute adjustments that Castiel made to his wings, remaining still, rather than flinching at their slightest indication of movment. The silence, however, and the opportunity bore upon Castiel until at last, he could not bear it but to speak:

"Did you sleep well, Greg?"

Dean startled a little and didn't properly recover his composure properly before he blurted out an answer: "alright... I guess."

"I am sorry."

"S'not your fault." Dean looked away from Castiel quickly and rubbed at his nose absently, using the knuckle rather that the tip of his finger, in a way that would barely have dispelled an itch.

The sight of Dean scratching, however, made Castiel feel a sympathetic twinge in his wing, and when Dean made no move to speak again, he allowed it to slowly curl around himself, in order to slot his fingers beneath the feather and rub lightly. The feathers were a little stiff and somewhat ruffled, having been positioned so oddly against the soft seat (or couch, as he had come to understand it was called) for such a long time. Once the itch was dispelled, therefore, he commenced grooming his fingers through the feathers slowly, gently righting them and setting them in a smoother position.

"What are you doing?"

When Castiel looked up, Dean's eyes were wide and following the track of his fingers through the feathers and across the skin beneath, which flashed on occasion through the downy covering when Castiel adjusted it.

"I am grooming."

"Oh."

Dean swallowed rather vigorously and looked down at his hands. Castiel continued his ministrations in silence, rather than provoking Dean to speak when he did not wish to. He noted that Dean's breathing was louder, and Dean seemed to be aware of it too, for he consciously held it, inhaling and exhaling slowly and carefully in order to minimise his volume. Castiel continued his exercise for several minutes, suppressing the urge to speak to Dean again, but when he looked up again, Dean's eyes were unabashedly tracking the path of his hand across the feathers, and he barely registered Castiel's gaze upon him until Sam re-entered the room and seated himself next to Castiel.

"So Cas, you, uh, ready to keep going?"

"Yes, if you wish."

Jessica seated herself by Dean quickly and leaned forward, distractedly brushing her curls from her face, one leg thrumming against the floor.

"Yes, please."

Dean said nothing, but his eyes raked Castiel's face, when he thought he was otherwise occupied.

**1425**

Winter passed quickly and ordinarily, without extended snows. The truth was, Castiel didn't let Dean know he was safe to leave for two weeks longer than was necessary. He made excuses for it. He needed Dean to help him with a repair to the roof before he left. Or he needed a few more days to size up the safety of the forest. Or Dean needed a few more days of practice upon his leg, before he would be comfortable making the ride back to Ardus. Dean acquiesced without noting the irrelevance of the concerns in the general scheme of his impending return to Ardus.

None of those excuses held weight. In honesty, Castiel knew he was keeping Dean with him because he feared losing him, and returning to the silence of the forest once again. He'd become accustomed to Dean's presence: his grumbling and glares in the morning when he woke to the cold and the frost, his humming as he polished and sharpened his weapon and his deep, even breaths when he fell asleep in Castiel's nest at night.

It was selfish to think such things, Castiel knew. Dean missed his brother more than anything. He mentioned him at least once every day: Sam would love this, or Sam once told him that. Castiel knew he was worried about him, and was desolate that Sam would believe his absence from the City for two months would mean he was dead. At times in the evening, when he fell silent, Castiel knew to whom Dean's mind had gone.

And he missed his men too. And Jo, the pretty serving girl, and her whip-tongued mother. Even Lydia, the married woman he bedded when he was in the city – "she's a wit Cas, you'd like her". Castiel didn't know why, but he was sure he wouldn't.

It didn't help that at times he felt like Dean might regret having to leave the cottage. Dean still checked the state of weather every morning when he woke, and he took to taking Impala out for a few short circuits of their clearing to "stretch her legs". He encouraged Castiel to ride her most days too, in circles round the clearing outside his home. And he laughed at her enthusiasm for the new rider and admonished her for adopting Castiel as her second owner so easily. Her trust had been difficult to gain at first, but when Castiel had commenced riding her for Dean (his leg still being too sore to properly exercise her), he took to beating his wings as they galloped around the clearing. The mare had been exhilarated by the extra momentum, and she had since greeted Castiel enthusiastically every morning and seemed to rejoice in his riding her.

Nonetheless, despite the obvious warming in the weather, Dean made no mention of actually leaving. And when Castiel spoke of his eventually returning to Ardus (which was a rare occasion, for he didn't care to talk of it), a small crinkle appeared around Dean's eyes, like he was holding something back.

Still, after two weeks of omitting to mention the obvious, Castiel overcame his own selfishness and spoke to Dean. That morning, when Dean awoke, and went to the windows, he raised the matter:

"I think you're safe to travel now."

"Are you sure? Maybe there'll be a late winter frost or something?" Dean bent forward towards the window, trying to angle his head up at the sky and letting the tip of his nose press against the glass. His breath made small marks on the pane as he watched.

Castiel felt his stomach drop softly, wishing he could agree. "I'm sure. I've lived in this forest long enough to know the weather patterns. You'll be able to leave tomorrow." He couldn't help the muteness in his voice at the final words.

Dean withdrew and turned to look at Castiel. "That's great, Cas. That's great news." While the words were light, they seemed to weigh heavily upon him. When he breathed in, it was as if he did so with a boulder strapped to his chest. Castiel stared at him, until Dean corrected himself and flashed him a huge, white smile. "Yeah… it's really great. Finally gonna see Sammy."

"I'm sure it will be a relief for him too."

Dean grinned and gave a light laugh: "Yeah. He's useless on his own. Wish you could meet him."

"I wish I could too. He sounds wonderful."

Dean held Castiel's momentarily, before his smile dropped slightly and he looked away and itched at his shoulder absently. "Guess I better get packed up, huh?"

Castiel itched at his own kneecap in response.

"Yes, we can leave at first light tomorrow."

"You're coming?" Dean's eyes flashed back to him, eyebrows raised with the question.

"I thought…if you wouldn't mind, I would fly with you for part of the way. Just in case." Castiel kept his voice steady, remedying the lapse of before, although Dean's enthusiasm at leaving had started a twist in his gut. He understood that Dean had to return to his family. But, he hated it.

Dean's smile lost some of its vibrancy and the controlled blandness of Castiel's tone. "Yeah, Cas. That would be great." Their eyes met and held for a few seconds, and Dean's mouth opened a little, like he had something else to say, shut it again and flashed Castiel a quick, closed-mouth smile. "Better go tell my baby the good news. She's been aching for a good gallop out of the clearing."

"Of course. I'll prepare us some rations."

Dean clicked his tongue in approval, before he shuffled from the cottage, closing the door quietly behind him.

When Castiel had finished his preparations, Dean still wasn't back from the barn. Castiel left through the back exist of the cottage, and found that while Impala was in the stable, Dean was not, although she was freshly fed and watered, and her saddle was readied beside her.

It didn't take Castiel long to find Dean, anticipating where he might find him. He was down by the river, where he'd been walking each morning to give himself some exercise, skipping stones across its surface. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and he followed the path of each stone long after it had sunk, absorbing the ripples of the movement across the water's surface in hypnotic whirls.

"Are you alright, Dean?"

Dean whirled around sharply, heaving in a breath of shock, partially raising a hand. "God Cas, don't do that!"

"I'm sorry. I thought you heard me."

Dean raised his eyebrows, and let out a surprised huff of a snort. When their eyes held, he went silent again and turned away until Castiel spoke again.

"I have everything prepared for tomorrow."

"Thank you, Cas." Dean's voice was small, and a little muffled, and he leaned down to pick up another stone to send it whizzing across the water's surface. He miscalculated, however, and it went plunging into the water with a slosh, leaving a messy slash mark in the water, where before there had been symmetry.

"Is something bothering you?" Castiel took a step forward, but Dean silenced him with a mild statement.

"No. No, I'm fine."

He obviously wasn't. He was determinedly looking away from Castiel, and he seemed without the energy and enthusiasm that had possessed him for the last few days.

"Shall I leave you?"

"No. No, sorry. Just…" Dean turned around and faced Castiel, another strange smile playing around his lips. It looked forced, despite the happy news Dean had been dealt. When he saw Castiel's expression, his fingers began to thrum nervously at his thigh, and his face attempted to rearrange itself into something more suitable.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem content Dean."

"No. I am. I mean, I've really missed Sammy. I just…"

"What?" Castiel took a step forward less cautiously this time, although Dean leaned back, as though losing his balance.

"I just… Will you be alright? By yourself?"

Castiel pursed his lips and looked away from Dean's worried gaze

"I've been on my own a long time, Dean. I am used to it."

"Yeah, but… Well, I just… I don't like thinking of you staying alone out here."

"Is there another option, but for it?"

Dean thought for a long while. When he spoke, his voice was a growl. "No, there's not."

"It's alright, Dean. I took you in knowing you would have to return to your family. You have no obligation to me." Castiel was glad he kept his voice so even. The truth was that it wasn't alright. He didn't want to be left alone again. Being with Dean had reminded of him of what it meant to have his brothers and sisters. To have companionship. Dean was… he didn't know exactly, he'd never shared such a bond with a human. But Dean had said they were friends, and that seemed to have significance to him. And that had meant something to Castiel, and his sadness at its loss meant something too.

"I know. I just wish there was something I could do."

"We're friends, aren't we Dean?"

"Of course we are. I told you we were."

"Well… maybe, if you return to the Road at some point, I might see you, if I am nearby?"

Dean's face lit up at that, and his fingers ceased their fiddling. "I'd really like that, Cas."

Dean's smile made Castiel smile, and he felt a warmth in his lower belly dispel some of its heaviness. It was kind and comforting. It quelled the twisting feeling. "When you're gone, I'll watch the Road for you Dean. We'll see each other again."

Dean smiled wider, and his shoulders relaxed. He stood square, and bounced back and forth on his legs. "Yeah. Yeah, of course we will."

"Good. Are you ready to come inside then? It'll be a long ride for the next few days. We'll need the sleep."

"Yeah, sure. Just give me a moment?"

"I'll meet you inside."

Dean's moment took long enough for Castiel to boil some water and wash himself. He was grooming his feathers, ensuring they were prepared for flight when Dean arrived back at the cottage. While he had spent the past few months doing so in privacy, in order to spare Dean whatever mortification seemed to arrive in him, with only tonight to prepare to leave, he hurried through the task in his more usual fashion in the corner of his cottage, taking advantage of Dean's absence.

When Dean did come inside he quickly averted his eyes. "Oh… sorry."

"It's alright." Castiel quickly wrapped his feathers around himself and retrieved his shirt from where it hung on the chair beside him, slipping the panels over his back and fumbling quickly with the buttons at its front. "I'm done now."

"Oh…good." Dean avoided making eye contact for a minute more, while he bustled around the kitchen and found himself some dried fruit to snack on, chewing loudly as though to detract from the tense silence of a moment before.

"What will you do first? When you reach the city?"

Dean chewed while he thought through the answer, swallowing audibly. "I'd like to see Sammy first thing, but… there'll probably be formalities. I'll need to make a report first. Maybe we'll go out. Drink some."

"What will you say to, Sam?" Castiel warmed as Dean's eyes softened at the thought, despite his own inclination to feel sadness at the event.

"I don't know… I guess I'll tell him I missed him. That I'm sorry he had to believe I was dead for so long."

Castiel steadied himself for the next question. He didn't know why, but he felt like its answer would matter to him a great deal. Dean seemed to notice, for his eyes flickered up to Castiel briefly, but he took another bite of his snack rather than acknowledge it: "Will you tell Sam about me?"

Dean stopped mid-chew and stared at him. Castiel dropped his eyes away, afraid of the answer already.

"Prob-Probably not, Cas."

There was a long pause, where Dean seemed to hold his breath.

"I understand."

Dean swallowed hurriedly, and coughed a little as he didn't properly manage to carry out the task.

"Uh, no I don't think you do. It's not because of you, or what you are. It's because of what might happen to you if I just start telling everyone. If Alastair thought there was an easy kill out here in the forest, he'd be out here trying to mount your head on a stick."

"I'm not an easy kill." Castiel titled his head in mild confusion, at the strange logic Dean appeared to wish to employ. Was Dean lying? There had been no hint of falsehood in the past few months that would justify a lie at this point.

"No. _I_ know that. But he doesn't. But if I said there was an Angel that looks like a human, with no claws or fangs that has a vegetable garden and apologizes to the animals he kills, that's what it'd sound like. He and his men would rip your wings off, Cas."

Castiel's wings tensed at that, and gave a few nervous flutters behind him. Dean's eyes were drawn immediately by the movement and he looked back at Castiel with an expression that clearly read _I told you so_. And he was correct, Castiel knew.

"Sam's my brother. And I trust him to understand. But, if he tells Ruby, it'll be all around the city in a day. And it's not just Alastair that'd want you. There's so many people that hate your kind. They'd want to take revenge on you. You've got a life here. I don't want you to have to run away." He looked around the cottage, as though demonstrating his point. It was a paltry place, but it was inhabited, and filled with Castiel's history. He nodded minutely and hung his head, although Dean's view made sense.

"And if I start spouting off about my new Angel friend in the forest, I may not even be allowed to ride out anymore. They'd think I was mad. If I don't get to leave the Citadel, I don't get to see you."

There was a pause when Dean stopped speaking, and he hurriedly took a breath to compensate for his harried pace.

"You understand, Cas?"

"Yes, I do."

"Don't worry. We'll see each other soon. There's more trading to do in Spring than we can handle. And maybe I can sneak out of the cities when we rest there. I'll just tell the men I'm bedding some girl. We can go for a ride in the forest or something, if you like…" He half-grinned hopefully, as though the rest of the smile could not follow until Castiel gave his approval.

"I'd like that."

Dean's full grin followed, bright and cheerful and energetic.

"Good, it's settled. Now come on, I need an early night with all the riding we'll be doing tomorrow. I'm still like an old man on this leg."

He clapped Castiel on the shoulder as he passed him and made his way to his bed (for that was how Castiel thought of it now, having spent enough time watching him sleep in it to have mentally re-assigned ownership). Castiel averted his eyes, as usual, while he Dean stripped and slid under the rugs.

He'd been silent for around twenty minutes, and Castiel had wrapped himself up in his wings and curled up on the floor, on his own fur when Dean murmured to him sleepily.

"You know Cas, you're nothing like a monster at all."

Castiel smiled into his wing at the sound of sleepiness in Dean's voice as he said it. He was clearly on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean grumbled a little and wriggled into the furs. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled, like he was face down against the bed.

"You're not ugly. You're sort of … _mmph _..."

…

Contrary to his predictions that he'd be impeded by his stiff leg and lack of practice, Dean rode furiously and without complaint towards the Citadel. In fact, Castiel had to take more regular breaks than Dean did on the journey. If he hadn't insisted they stop for meals (in order to ease the cramps in his wings, that were put off by such exertion after their relative stagnancy) he doubted Dean would stop at all, so strong was his resolve to return to his brother. The speed was an efficient tactic though. It kept them ahead of any interested Angels in the forest. There was no sense in pursuing such a rapid target when there would soon be heavily-laden and larger parties on the Road.

By the third day, they were within half a day's slow ride of the City and set up camp for the night, by a collection of boulders that offered them shelter from the still cold winds that rose in the evenings.

Dean had fallen asleep abruptly the previous nights (the only sign that he was finding the trip draining), but on that final night, wrapped in his fur, he stayed awake, next to Castiel, back against the boulders watching the night sky and admiring it. They didn't speak, aside from a few murmurs. Though Castiel had scouted the area, they were still careful to stay quiet when darkness fell, perhaps more out of habit than anything else.

At one point, when the rock became cold in the early morning, Castiel placed one wing between the boulder and Dean's back. They were both tired and a little shivery, so neither made particular note of the fact it was the first time Dean had touched Castiel's wings. It was barely a touch anyway. Dean kept his fur wrapped around himself and his hands within it, even when he dozed off for a while before dawn. But to Castiel, it was an odd intimacy.

It wasn't the reason that Castiel had let Dean near his wings (or likely, the reason Dean had let the wings near him) – it was purely practical. But Castiel couldn't help but feel odd at the sight of Dean nestled against him, cradled by the feathers at the tip of the wing, which curled gently back around his right shoulder.

It struck Castiel as odd in itself that he felt odd about it. The gesture was familial, often seen amongst Angels who lived in smaller units together for long periods of time. Certainly, when Anna was alive, it was a position they found themselves in often and without thought.

Dean, in a way, was the closest thing he'd had to family since he'd lost the others. In sharing a home, and a presence, they'd shared a part of their souls together without even realizing it. The fact that there were odd formalities in their behavior (like Dean's general awkwardness around his wings, and his aversion to seeing Castiel, or letting himself be seen, in any state of undress) didn't negate the bond that had formed between them.

Yet still, seeing Dean snoring lightly, face turned into his feathers and nose twitching when they rustled against them, it felt different. Not in a bad way. But it made Castiel aware of the pulse of his heartbeat throughout his body, which had quickened, like he was sick or nervous. It felt bad but good at the same time, like it was leading somewhere, although Castiel didn't know where. Perhaps it was merely the reminder that none of his brothers and sisters were left to engage in the action any longer – none but he understood the complexity of the motion, even Dean nestled against him.

It was easy though, to not feel inspired to be curious about it, under the vast expanse of sky and in the gentle hum of the sleeping forest. It was easy rather, to simply feel content and unburdened, by his Father, his sisters and brothers or anything else, and just to revel in the beauty of creation when it was at rest, and at its most unassuming.

Castiel turned his head to watch Dean's slow and even breaths in and out, in a deep sleep despite his dangerous surroundings. He was almost childlike in the way he brought his hands to his chin and nestled into them, and he smiled in his sleep. Yes, Castiel mused as he turned back to stare at the inky night sky - when at rest and without any pretence, creation was at its greatest.

…

Castiel waited until Dean had saddled Impala before he told him that he would go no further. It seemed like Dean was expecting it, though his face still dropped when Castiel remained seated against the boulder, fiddling with a few of his feathers that had been ruffled by the rock's rough surface during the night.

Dean was silent while he slung his travelling bag over his shoulder, and attached his weapons to his belt. Castiel didn't interrupt. There was little to say at this point that they hadn't already discussed in the days previously.

"So this is it?"

Castiel sighed and pushed himself up from the ground, letting his wings stretch and shiver behind him, working out their stiffness from immobility the previous night.

"I'll see you soon, Dean" he said, meeting his eyes and trying (and failing) to summon up a farewell smile.

"Yeah… real soon." Dean quirked his lips in a similar attempt, although he still looked sad behind it, his lips quivering as though oscillating between a smile and a grimace.

"Uh. Cas, thank you. For everything. I-" he paused, looking embarrassed, "well, I don't know what to say. But that. Thank you."

"You know I feel the same."

Dean breathed in softly, and nodded, managing to offer a more genuine grin.

"So… Give me a month, maybe a bit longer. Meet me on the Road."

"I'll be there. I promise."

Dean nodded curtly again and extended his hand towards Castiel. Castiel responded by looking at it blankly.

"You're supposed to take it, Cas. It's a handshake. Look-" he pulled Castiel's hand and clasped it in his, not too tightly, but firm enough that Castiel got the gist. "Then we, just, shake them up and down like this."

He jiggled their hands up and down a few times. Castiel had given Dean his hand with a loose wrist, so even the mild force of the shake shook his entire arm in a strange way,

"This is a human custom?"

"Yeah. It's… well, you can do it with friends."

"It's an odd gesture."

"Yeah. Well. I, uh…Here" He kept his hand clasped around Castiel and pulled him forward, wrapping his other arm around behind Castiel's neck and let his chin rest on the back of his shoulder.

Castiel hung limply, unsure how to respond, and a little uncomfortable at the way their hands were crushed in between their chests.

"Just uh, clap me on the back or something, Cas."

Castiel did as instructed, although perhaps a little too enthusiastically, for Dean let out a small _oof_, before releasing him and letting his hands drop to his sides.

"Is that part of the same custom?"

"No. That one's different. You can do that one with friends too. Or family."

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean blushed a little and bit his lip. He turned away from Castiel, although he kept his eyes on Castiel's face to the last second and approached his horse. Castiel watched curiously as Dean rubbed at the back of neck awkwardly for a few moments, before he hooked his foot into Impala's stirrup and swung his other leg over her back and down her other side.

"Well, goodbye then. For now." Dean's mouth twitched in a small smile as he looked down at Castiel from atop his steed.

"Yes, goodbye." Castiel smiled back, and patted the horse once on the nose. She whickered softly, and tossed her head once, before her ears pricked up, alert to her rider's instructions.

They stared at each other a long moment before Dean whirled Impala around and squeezed his thighs along her sides. In a moment, she was off in a brisk canter. The last Castiel saw of Dean was the back of his head, as he headed into the tree thicket and towards the main Road that would take him back to the Ardus Citadel.

Castiel only spent a little more time in the clearing after that. At some point, he rose above the tree line and witnessed the black dot that was moving beyond it make its way to the road and begin to follow the path south towards the City. He waited until Dean was completely out of sight before he turned himself, and began the flight home.

For some reason, the journey home took longer, although Castiel flew later into the night and started earlier in the morning. Partly, that was due to his hunting activities. He left a trail of carcasses in his wake, leading away from the Road where Dean rode, in order to ensure his safe passage. But it wasn't just that. He did become distracted at points, and didn't fly in a perfect line back to his home. It wasn't just that though. There was a certain heaviness in his flight, and he found himself tiring quickly beneath it. On the fourth day, when he arrived home, he didn't even take the time to rearrange the furs he had fashioned into Dean's bed into his preferred nest shape. Instead, he merely fell into it, burrowing into the now foreign smelling furs and wrapping his wings around himself, and slept until the evening of the next day.

…

"Open the gates!" Bobby's roar was loud, in spite of the disbelief that laced his cry. "Open the gates! Dean Winchester is returned!"

Dean, seated atop Impala, kept his eyes fixed on the Road behind him. Although he had completed his travels without incident, he was cautious still. The final ride back had been wearying. Not only because he had barely slept the previous night, nor because he had been riding for four full days. He was tired because he'd become accustomed to Castiel's watch of the forest floor from his bird's eye view, and the safety that it provided. Without his shadow, Dean had been a mere soldier, barely armed, thundering along the Road – a prime target to any Angel in the vicinity.

He'd wondered at times if the Angel had followed him beyond the point he'd said he would not. He even suspected that Cas had concocted some scheme to ensure his safe passage. But whenever he'd glanced behind him, there had been no sign of a winged figure on the horizon. It felt strange, being out of Castiel's company so abruptly, but Dean supposed he had much to be occupied with. His usual practices had been put out by months with Dean's company, and Dean was sure Cas would have plenty to do in order to make the most of the upcoming summer months. Time was too precious for sentiment, and Cas was hardly the kind of creature that appreciated such things.

As the gates creaked open, Dean could already hear the murmur of an interested crowd that had gathered, shocked to hear his name uttered for the first time in two months. The moment he had sufficient space, he slid Imapla through the gap, relieved to find himself within the City walls and their protection once more.

The eyes of the townspeople that had assembled were wide and unbelieving. Upon his appearance, their voices hushed and they parted way for him as he rode through their mass.

Bobby's joyous cry at the sight of him rang out loud and pure above them. "Dean. You idjit! Where the hell you been?"

Dean was only partially dismounted before Bobby was gripping him by both shoulders, eyes almost brimming over and face shining with delight.

"We thought you were dead, boy!" He smacked his palms against Dean's shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I thought I was too, at first." Dean's reply was a little muffled as Bobby crushed his face into his shoulder.

"What happened? How'd you survive?"

Dean clapped him on the arm in return. "All in good time. I promise. Where's Sam?"

"Probably up at the library. He's gonna be glad to see you."

"That's what I'm hoping." Dean's cheeks were already aching from how hard he was smiling at the sight of Bobby, and they didn't threaten to rest at the swell of elation in his chest at the thought of the fact that his reunion with Sam was mere moments away.

"I hate to cut things short-" he saluted the crowd, which had grown larger as he had heard his name called through the city streets. Grinning, he nudged Impala forward, and cantered through the city streets, past disbelieving stares and whoops of celebration.

By the time he reached the palace walls, Chuck was waiting for him, chest puffed with elation.

"By God, it's true! We heard the call halfway across the city. Welcome home, Dean!"

Dean raised his hand in greeting. "It's good to be home. Have you seen my brother?"

"He's on his way down. The moment we heard your name, they sent a runner."

Dean dismounted again, giving Impala a few appreciative strokes on her muzzle. "She's been riding a long time. Can you take care of her while I see Sammy?"

"You've got it." Chuck grinned at him, and slapped him jovially on the arm as Bobby had done. "I just can't believe it, Dean. I'm so glad you're back!"

Dean chuckled. "It's nice to know I meant so much to you all."

Chuck laughed back. "It's more than that Dean. It's-"

"DEAN!"

Sam's cry could have shattered windows, it was so shrill and excited, from the balcony of the palace's walls. With a delighted cry, he slammed his hands down on the stone retraints, and stumbled as he raced down the stairs to his brother.

When Sam bounded towards Dean, he was the perfect image of an excited puppy. His eyes were wide with wonder, and his smile was stretched so far across his face it practically severed it in half.

They met in an embrace with such force that Dean was sure he'd bruise the next day, but that didn't stop him from wrapping his arms around his brother and squeezing him with all his might.

"God, Dean, we thought you were dead." Sam's voice was muffled against Dean's shoulder as he pressed his face there, and his words came out in hot breaths against Dean's clothing.

Dean grinned against his brother. "Alive and well Sammy. In the flesh."

Sam's tight squeeze knocked the breath Dean attempted to take, leading to a slight _oof_ as Dean reciprocated in kind.

"I thought- We all did. We had your funeral."

"I bet they were all devastated. All the palace ladies turn out for me?" Sam let out a shaky breath as he withdrew from his brother, and laughed lightly in disbelief.

"The whole damn city did, Dean. Everyone was… Oh God, I can't believe you're back." Sam pulled his brother in tightly again for another hug and Dean felt, beneath the thrum of excitement and boyish disbelief, he was trembling too.

"Can't even believe it myself."

"There's so much to tell you. I don't even know where we-"

"You can start by explaining this." Dean pulled back and raised his hand to flick playfully at the moustache and extravagant sideburns Sam was now sporting – a far cry from Sam's usual clean-shaven appearance. "Makes you look like a brothel master from Romus."

Sam grinned and made to punch Dean's shoulder, but they were interrupted by a familiar voice from behind Sam, although its owner was invisible due to Sam's extreme bulk. It didn't matter. Dean knew it. And the moment soured as quickly as it had arisen.

"Sam? Is it true? Is he-"

Sam grinned even wider and pulled away from Dean to turn around. Ruby, who stood behind him, looking flushed and flustered, and stumbled a little when she caught sight of Dean. Her mouth fell open in a stunned little _oh. _As she descended slightly at the knees, Sam rushed forward to catch her with a furrowed brow.

"Are you alright?" His voice was low and urgent and he leaned close to her ear as though she might struggle to discern his words.

She let him right her, and smiled up at him, letting their noses almost brush as he leaned in concernedly. "I'm fine, darling. Just a little surprised."

A beat passed between them before she looked back to Dean, a gracious smile inflating her face.

"_Dean,_" it was said with such an affectation that it made Dean choke a little on the pretense, "I can't believe it." She held out both her hands towards him. Even in his glazed state of happiness, he still hesitated a little before taking them, needing the prompt of Sam's expectant expression.

She squeezed them tightly. "We're so happy you're home."

The lids of Dean's eyes twitched on the odd expression of plurality, but he kept his manner charming for Sam's benefit. He wanted to enjoy the moment too, and forget his dislike for Ruby temporarily (it had been so pleasant having barely thought of her for two months). "I'm glad to see you're well, Ruby."

She smiled at him, teeth and all (an unusual departure from her usual close-lipped, condescending smirk). It was disorienting, seeing Ruby so…. _pleasant_. Had he not been so elated in the moment, he might have suspected earlier that there was something relevant he was missing.

"I'm more than well."

Her hands dropped to her stomach and rubbed a circle over it in an odd kind of gesture. It was almost like a pantomime expression of hunger.

Sam reached out and clasped his hand over the same area. His hand was so monstrous it eclipsed both of hers clasped together. When he spoke, his voice was incredulous, and elated.

"Dean. God, I can't believe I'm telling you this in person. We- … Ruby and I, we're _married_."

…

Sam's little announcement couldn't have been timed better to stifle the reaction Dean had been on the verge of having. It wasn't the words Sam had uttered that had caught him off guard (although he had a few choice thoughts about that circumstance). He'd barely heard those words above the rush of blood in his ears as he'd witnessed the way Sam clasped protectively around Ruby's hands that had been laced at such an odd way at her stomach.

It had only taken moments to piece together. Sam's strange concern at a little trip, the inappropriateness of a marriage so close to Dean's 'death' and the assured little (familiar) smirk that had crossed Ruby's face as Sam had spoken. That smirk had said _I've won_. She had. She was holding the trump card now. The card that would -

"Your audience will be in here." The guard to his right indicated two massive wooden doors embedded into the wall, decorated artfully with an iron filigree that ascended farther than Dean's eye could make out, to the shadowy heights of the palace's roof. It was a monument built in thanks to the original Empress that had made their city, and other cities like it, safe from the Angels. An absolutely massive and exorbitant thank you; a display of opulent wealth reflected nowhere in Ardus' kingdom.

"Remind me of the proper titles?" Dean smiled weakly at the guard. "Not exactly any formal audiences with royalty in the forest, you know how it is."

The guard, unlike the rest of the Citadel, did not seem overly impressed with Dean's feat. On the contrary, he looked stern and unamused.

"The Empress Eve is Your Majesty. Her husband is His Lordship, and their daughter is Her Imperial Highness. Don't get it wrong."

Dean gulped nervously. "Not really sure I'm dressed for this kind of occasion."

The guard smirked and nodded to the guards on either side to open the doors. As they did, he muttered at Dean: "Alastair sends his regards and congratulations."

Dean's eyebrows raised, and he grinned: "Really? How is the old son of a-"

The guard ignored him and pressed the doors open, and the creak drowned out the end of Dean's query. It distracted him from following up on the odd manner of delivery of the message too, for moments later, he was being thrust forward by a hostile armored hand and onto a massive purple carpet, that lead up the middle of the room to a decorated platform at its centre. Dean barely had a moment to splutter his indignance before the doors were being slammed shut behind him and he was left stranded on the carpeted island. His brain ran frantically through the necessaries of etiquette Sam had drilled him upon, after his accession to the ranks of the Slayers. He came up short, only remembering: _eyes down, shoulders straight and don't say anything unless you have to_.

Dean gulped and at once dropped his head, and commenced approaching their majesties slowly, focusing his eyes on the stairs at their feet. The throne room was massive (in order to host formal ceremonies such as crowning) so the walk was a long, and slightly painful one. The only sound as Dean shuffled forward was the shuffle of his mud-caked boots along the bright red rug. He winced at the sound, and at once commenced to pick up his feet artificially to avoid it. In a room of majesty such as this, making one's presence so audible seemed like a gross affront. Dean had no idea why, but it just did.

When he was close enough to be made out by their waiting majesties, he heard Lilith's shocked intake of breath. He took the opportunity to peek a glance at the group. Lilith, as royal princess, was seated to her mother's right, dressed in the red celebration robes of royalty she was so fond of. To her left was the Empress Eve, wearing the more customary purple garb. Her eyes were narrow and her back was ramrod straight and barely rested against the throne behind her. She caught the end of Dean's look and a small twitch of displeasure was at once visible in her upper lip. On her left was Samuel Campbell, once a Slayer like Dean, but now Lord Protector of the City by both marriage and appointment. He was the man Sammy was named in honor of, having been appointed Lord Protector in the year of Sam's birth. All their eyes were on Dean, who attempted to bow shakily before them. Since he hadn't been much for ceremony, even before his stint in the forest, it was an especially poor one and Eve made a discontented little sound in her throat, before she commenced speaking.

"Dean Winchester, you have fought a great battle to return to our City. We thought you were lost to us." The Empress addressed him in her characteristically cool manner, with an empty stare.

"I thought I was too, your majesty." He kept his eyes at their feet, avoiding direct contact. Despite his status as a Slayer, he was not yet at a social position where a direct address was possible.

"The Slayer Garth told us he saw you being dragged into the woods by a creature. How did you escape?"

At the sound of Garth's name, Dean couldn't help but break code. He looked up to Lilith, his tone suddenly frantic: "Garth's alive?"

Samuel cleared his throat and Dean dropped his eyes again quickly, relief flooding from his core to the tips of his fingers for the man he had sure was dead. When Samuel did speak his voice was low and emotionless, like Eve's. "He returned to the City with one other man. He now bears the mark of a Slayer."

So Garth was a Slayer now. That was new. Not that the term meant much after what Castiel had told him about the Angels regenerating. It was a surprise. Garth was a good solider, but he was without the mass (or, Dean had thought, the skill, to take down an Angel). Despite that, it was an elating thought. For two months, Dean had believed he was responsible for the deaths of all 25 of the travelling party, as well as their animals. The news that even two had lived was enough to momentarily eclipse the guilt he'd felt since then. Of course, the guilt roared back to life only moments later, reminding him that two lives did not spare the torturous deaths that had met the other 23.

"So tell us, Dean. How did you return to us?" Eve lowered her chin and stared him down. He could feel the burn on the top of his head.

"I, uh-" He and Castiel had rehearsed this story a few times to make it sound believable, but the words were difficult for his tongue – that felt dry and swollen with nerves – to make proper sense of.

"You may look at me, when you address me, Slayer."

Dean gulped and looked up. The moment he was properly met with the full force of Eve's gaze, he wished he'd been allowed to keep his head low. Her eyes made him feel like his skin was burning with cold and frost, and he gave a small, involuntary shiver, before fixating his eyes on her right ear.

"I was trying to fight off the Angels …. Your Majesty" Mentally, he patted himself on the back for remembering to mention her title. "Got knocked off my horse. Must have hit my head because I don't remember much. When I woke up, one of them had dragged me a little way into the forest. Guess it didn't want to share its meal." He tried a faint grin at Lilith, but her gaze, like that of those beside her, was a merciless stare. "When I woke up the thing had a hold of me. I still had my weapon and I fought it off, but it tore open my leg."

"Why did it not kill you?"

" There was a man … fallen a little ways beyond me. I think the thing had gone for him first. When I woke up it was still… with him."

"Why did you not return to the men?"

"I was unconscious for a while. When I woke it was too late. The only ones left were dead, your Majesty. If they obeyed my orders, any that were alive would have lead the creatures away from the wagons and down the Road. I saw the wagons were destroyed and the people in them were dead or gone."

She nodded solemnly.

"I couldn't walk on my leg. I found my horse in the forest. She comes when I whistle, see?"

He grinned proudly to himself at that. It had taken some time for him to teach his baby that trick. She was valiantly faithful too – even when the Angels had been attacking. Cas had whistled to her, she'd come to him, though Dean was sure she'd sooner have run as far as she could in the opposite direction.

He thought of Cas again, perched on her saddle, galloping at full speed with his wings flapping behind him. Impala seemed to have loved the feel of extra speed that he brought her. He'd probably ruined her for Dean now. She'd think he was just some useless lump that sat atop her….

He stopped. They were awaiting his further explanation.

"I tried to ride down the Road, but I couldn't go at speed. But I could hear them everywhere. And I was losing blood and setting up a trail-"

"We understand why you took shelter, Slayer. But why have you taken so long to return to us?"

"I was injured. And so was my horse. We were both sick with infection. I took shelter in a cave. It got too cold to travel, with my injury the way it was. We had to wait out the snows, for I had nothing warm to protect me. We left as soon as the air changed."

The royals conversed for a few moments amongst themselves atop their platform in hushed whispers before Eve addressed Dean again.

"You are welcome home, Slayer. We will celebrate your return tomorrow night. You are dismissed."

They made no move to rise from their seats and, facing the pressure of being stared down by the three most powerful courtiers in the entire kingdom, Dean gave a curt and awkward little bow.

"Thank you for your audience."

No one responded and Eve raised her eyebrow. The gesture confused Dean and he froze momentarily, unsure if there was some kind of social decorum which he had forgotten – perhaps kissing their almightiness' feet, for instance. But, when there was nothing, he made a quick calculus, and decided leaving too early would be better than waiting out the painful silence. He sighed in relief, when he commenced walking backwards, head bowed, and their majesties made no move to stop him. From the end of the hall, he could hear the sound of the doors being painstakingly inched open again, by the unfortunate guards obliged to bear their weight on a daily basis.

The walk down the aisle was an embarrassing one, and Dean did his best to hurry without scuttling in their presence, but with his stiff leg, his gait did come across as something of a lollop. The guard that had escorted him to the room still stood outside, back entirely erect despite the heavy (and largely ornamental) garb be wore. Although he didn't move from his postured position, his eyes narrowed enough beneath his visor that Dean felt the hostility, and he decided against asking about the details of the celebration the next night.

Right. Back to reality it was then.

….

"Where are you going?"

"Balthazar's waiting down at the Brown Bear. The whole Guard is there."

Dean's glance at Sam was unapologetic, and he quickly returned to dressing himself in some of his mustier clothes, which Sam had left, still folded, in his chest of drawers.

"I thought… we might… spend some time together."

"Duty calls."

"Yes, but…"

Sam didn't finish his sentence and Dean didn't enquire as to what he had meant to say. It wasn't until he was almost entirely properly dressed, that Sam had tried to vocalize his frustration, but the attempt was immediately prevented by the sound of the door being thrown open and the musical howl of Garth's enthusiastic greeting. "DEAN!" It was accompanied by a hug the strength of which Dean could have barely anticipated. Garth's bony, weedy figure was sharp and spiky, and Dean grimaced as Garth's wrists pressed into his shoulders.

When he pulled away, Garth was practically in tears: "Man of the hour! Dean. I can't believe it."

"Woah, woah, wo-"

Dean attempted to back away, but Garth was upon him again like lighting, wrapping his arms around Dean and pinning his biceps to his sides with surprising strength. Dean was practically constricted to death before Garth let go.

"How'd you do it?"

Dean grinned, but he felt it falter, when his gaze flickered back to Sam, who still hadn't lost his disappointed expression.

"All in good time, my good man. Right now, there's more pressing matters to attend to."

Garth catcalled and clapped Dean on the back. "How long's it been since you had a drink then?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam shuffle and bite at his lip. He ignored the gesture

"Too long, friend. Lead the way."

Garth whooped and slung his arm around Dean's shoulders, escorting him bodily from the room. He stopped at the threshold and turned to Sam embarrassedly. "You coming, Sam?"

Sam's mouth opened and closed several times, and he blinked rapidly before answering: "No, no. I'll… stay here. I have work to do."

Dean pursed his lips and turned away. He knew it wasn't fair to be mad at Sam. This marriage, this… urgh _baby_, there was more leeway in the circumstance than Dean was currently prepared to allow his brother. He knew it, and he knew he was being a brat. But in the midst of petulance, and some righteous indignation, he was loath to admit it, for the next few hours at least.

"As you wish. Onward, good sir!" Garth galloped them from the house as though they were atop their steeds and Dean couldn't help but ignore Sam's disappointment for laughing heartily at his friend, now Slayer of Ardus' antics. It felt good to have been missed.

…

It took him nearly an hour to make it to the pub. The people of the City knew his face, and he was hugged and kissed my practically every passer-by. Their eyes were wide as they questioned how he had returned from so long in the forest. If it hadn't been for Garth's hand on his arm, leading him through the crowd (who had a new deference for his orders, it seemed) he might not have even made it before nightfall.

Garth, however, brushed them aside with his gangly limbs and weak yells (for his voice succumbed quickly under the exertion): "Move aside, hero coming through!""

Upon entry to the pub he was greeted with a cheer that was even more raucous.

"The Slayer has returned!" Even above the yells, Balthazar's voice was easy to make out, as he stood on the table and greeted Dean by throwing open his arms as if he would embrace him from across the room. As he gestured, the beer from the tankard in his left hand overflowed and drenched a passing serving girl. At first she seemed fairly affronted, but upon seeing who was to blame, she concealed her expression and continued about her duties.

Balthazar, grinning at Dean, tilted his head back and poured the remaining beer directly down his throat in one long gulp. When completed, he held his arms open towards the crowds and beat his chest. The crowd laughed and applauded as he leapt down from the table and pushed his way through the crowd to Dean, clasping him in a hug that was equally as constrictive as Garth's had been. "We thought you were lost, brother."

Dean grinned as he withdrew, and slapped Balthazar on the shoulder with far more force than necessary: "Here and in the flesh."

Balthazar crowed as Dean hit him and raised his empty tankard high in the year, yelling above the cheers and whoops: "In the flesh!"

The crowed hollered excitedly and recited back: "In the flesh! In the flesh!"

Not one to waste time with pleasantries, when there was drinking to be done, Balthazar all but wrenched Dean away from Garth and dragged him towards the bar. He had almost made it there (to his grand relief – he needed a drink) when he was stopped again, and practically thrown over by Jo, who ran to him and threw her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. There were a few wolf-whistles at that, but Jo was hardly one to be embarrassed by her customers.

"Hey!" She released Dean and turned to the waiting room, whose raucousness died a little as she prepared to speak. When she did, she yelled, so loud that her voice cracked with the effort, "you will all address me with the respect my station deserves!"

Dean removed his arms from around her waist. "What's that station, Jo? You know serving wench is the highest station in the land as far as these guys are concerned."

She winked at him and slid her gaze over to Garth, who had fought his way through the waiting crowd to catch up. She kept her eyes on Dean as she approached him, turning only at the last minute to meet him, with a surprisingly tender press of lips. Immediately she whirled back, an excited grin on her face and an expectant expression.

Dean blinked once, as he processed what he had just witnessed. "Wha-?"

A second later, Jo raised her left hand, palm faced towards her, and wiggled her fingers meaningfully. At once, Dean's gaze dropped to her fourth finger, where a small, but delicately engraved thin band of silver sat there. The sound in the room dulled, as though they were waiting with bated breath for the punchline. She grinned and yelled once again: "You will address me as the betrothed lady that I am!" There were a few catcalls from the bar, and one shout of "And never was a lady finer!" Jo hid the faint blush rising in her cheeks by arranging the fingers of the same hand she had just shown to Dean in a gesture only seen used by the City's men when they were outside the watchful gaze of their wives or mothers. The room erupted in cheers again, and Garth was clapped so hard on the back by a few members of the Guard that he stumbled forward slightly.

Jo turned to Dean, elation visible through every pore of her being. Dean rushed to her and seized her in a fierce hug and pressed his face to her shoulders. "It's true, Jo. Finest girl in the City. " He felt her smile against his chest as he released her.

When she was free, Garth immediately approached and she leaned against his shoulder with an unexpected familiarity. Dean suppressed his shock at the oddness of the circumstance to reach forward and shake Garth's hand firmly. "You're a lucky man, Garth. When did this happen?"

"When I got back from the Road. Life's too short, you know?" Garth smiled sheepishly and looked down to Jo, who beamed at him.

"What he means is, I told him in no uncertain terms." Dean registered Jo's narrative, but couldn't hel but watch as Garth's eyes drifted to the floor, where his face changed to a small, secret looking smile that expressed his remembering the circumstance fondly. "Got tired of all the Guards coming in and leering at me like I'm a piece of meat. This one always came in and wanted to talk. When he came back, I told him to grow a pair and make an honest girl of me."

"And I said yes." Garth grinned from ear to ear and snaked his arm around her waist. She elbowed him playfully at the rise of a few cheers again, but not far enough that he lost his hold on her.

"We'll be married on the first night of summer. I'm so happy you'll be there, Dean."

Dean smiled in earnest at her obvious joy. "Of course, Jo. Wouldn't miss it."

She beamed at him, before removing Garth's arm from her waist, with a squeeze to his fingers that didn't go unnoticed by Dean. As she sauntered back to the bar, she turned her head and winked at both of them. Dean couldn't help but grin back. Once she was back to serving, to the celebration of those soldiers queuing there, Dean turned back to Garth.

"So that's the 'Garth', then? Just talking to them?"

"There's nothing more to it, Dean. Garth'd her good." His eyes wandered to behind the bar, where Jo was standing, laughing with the Guards assembled there. "That, and I look damn good in a uniform." He tore his eyes away from her to slap proudly at the Slayer's emblem now emblazoned across is Guard's uniform.

"I'm happy for you. Really."

"And I'm happy you're back, Dean. It hasn't been the same without you."

They smiled at each other for a few moments, before an already drunk soldier crashed into Garth and lead him away, singing drunkenly of a lady of raven hair and skin of sunshine. Garth followed amicably, and left Dean to take his leave.

It took Dean a while to take a moment for some peace. More of the Guard accosted him with hugs and cheers, and he made merry as best he could, repeating the story he had told Eve over and over until his throat ached and his eyes were watering a little with the effort of it all.

Balthazar stumbled over again too, far drunker now, and pressed him for the story when Dean had mercifully almost made it to the stairs.

"You slept in a cave, brother?"

Dean grinned and whacked Balthazar on the arm, knowing the Slayer's penchant for making light of his 'delicate' features, and complaining of his other (nonexistent) delicacies as a man of the Road; as far as he was concerned, an aversion to male nudity was a sensible behavior – there were those that would burst his head open with a rock for failing to avert his gaze quickly enough and being called a prude was a worthy sacrifice for avoiding the appearance of those less concerned.

"Sure didn't beat the beds of Ardus, my friend."

"Or the company I'm sure."

They both guffawed and Balthazar took another deep swig of his drink.

"They must have been swarming you in the winter."

Dean swallowed and kept his expression light. It was easy, especially when Balthazar was in such a state as this, to forget the extensive experience he had on the Road. Cas and he had discussed it, and he knew there were a few holes in his story, particularly if anyone became curious as to see the site he had supposedly preserved himself in, injured and without assistance, for two months. Of course, he and Balthazar were friends, so he doubted Balthazar would seek out such holes. Still, under his bright blue, light gaze, Dean was careful as he responded.

"There were days, where… I thought I'd never make it out brother."

"What made them leave? I've known them to haunt entrances for weeks on end and starve out whatever they find."

Dean took a careful drink from his flagon, being careful not to look away to quickly before he told the lie.

"They… gave up, eventually. I suppose they get hungry. And I stayed quiet, right at the back. I think they would have barely seen or smelled me."

"So you didn't see?"

"No, uh-"

"BALTHIE! A SONG!" The jubilant cry came from the other side of the room. It was matched by cheers of acquiescence and a rising chant: "Sing! Sing! Sing!"

"Alright, alright, alright!" Balthazar tore his eyes away from Dean's and made to leap atop the bar once again. Jo swatted at his feet good-naturedly, but he kept his touch light and danced away from her flicks, much to the amusement of the now-entirely intoxicated soldiers.

Dean took the opportunity to make his escape quietly and without ceremony, slipping through the door and up the stairs to the inn's rooms. He located the first unlocked room and fled into it, slamming the door behind him and pressing back against the wood, shutting his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose and out through his mouth.

It was an only too welcome opportunity for a little silence, although the sounds of the celebration downstairs were muffled only by the door. It was so strange, to be back amongst such noise and merriment, after such tranquility in the forest. It had almost been too much too soon, and Dean had found himself momentarily desperate for air and space and solace. A little solitude, even after month's with only Cas and the forest's company, was a welcome relief.

It was wonderful to be home. Truly. But it was strange to see home so changed in such a short time. He had to admit, he had been surprised by Garth and Jo at first. He remembered talking with Cas about her and sharing with him the momentary thought that when he returned_ he_ might be the man to make an honest woman of her.

When he'd seen Garth's arm around Jo's waist, there'd been a momentary flare of… something. At first, he'd thought it was jealousy, or regret. But it wasn't. Dean felt earnestly happy for them, and he couldn't help but smile as he thought of the way they had watched each other across the bar. Garth was a good man, and the way Jo looked at him…. It was unexpected, sure. But it was right. Garth was a Slayer now, one of the most highly ranked and celebrated men in the City. The fact that he would be marrying a bar maid - before the Princess' betrothal, no less - was nothing short of scandalous, even if she was better than all the ladies in the Palace put together. The fact that he and Jo were together meant it was all for love.

And Dean had seen it. In both of them. How they were both still slightly flustered around one another, and elated at the slightest touch. The way the cheers of the guard had made Jo glow, even though she'd brushed them off as vulgar.

But Dean felt something strange because of it. It tugged at his chest a little. A small, insistent nag. Like he'd forgotten something on the way here, and Garth and Jo had reminded him of what it was. Perhaps it was that, unlike Sam, he wasn't punishing him for taking solace in one another in his absence. But Sam was his _brother_, not his friend. He owed Dean more than he'd given.

Dean sighed and leaned forward a little bit, watching his feet. It was strange, seeing the City so changed in such a short space of time. Garth and Jo, Sam and Ruby. Sure, everyone said he'd been missed. Everyone said they'd toasted the other 23 that hadn't made it back to the City walls. But what significance had they had really? Sam had moved on, and set up a perfect life for himself quickly. Garth and Jo had found each other, and had planned for festivities only months after his death. Had anyone really been that affected?

In the forest, with Cas, it had been easy to imagine his significance. He was important to Cas, and it was obvious in everything he did. Cas was cold, certainly, but he had his own kind of warmth that Dean had steadily grown to appreciate over their months together. And it had pained Dean to see some of that warmth falter when he'd had to leave and return to the City. Back here, he was a leader, of course. But he'd been replaced, hadn't he? Replaced sooner than he'd have been buried in his grave, if indeed there was one.

In the silence of this room, the sensation wracked him properly for the first time since he'd entered the City. Worthlessness. That's what his 'death' on the Road had been. As had Rufus', and Creedy's, and Aiden's and all the others that had fallen. Momentary blips to a city as unforgiving as the Road itself. Intermittent sadnesses that interrupted celebration and festivity. Nights that had never been wracked with the chorus of Angels' screams across the empty forest – like a performance of the dying, designed to remind its audience of the inevitable painful demise guaranteed to all mortal beings and the dread that ought to accompany it.

Sure, everyone said they'd missed him. He didn't doubt that Sam had and that he loved him. He didn't doubt that Garth was glad to see him, and Balthazar looked forward to recommencing their drinking together. But his return was an unexpected joy, not a necessity. His loss was something that they'd gotten over, and whatever hole is violent death would have left had been filled. He would have suffered being torn apart. For nothing. All for nothing. He wondered idly if this was how Cas felt, when he realized his own predicament. And he chided himself at once. This wasn't anywhere near comparable to Cas. Cas who was waiting in a dank, dark cottage in the middle of the forest, for nothing but an inevitable and horrifying future that he was forced to confront nightly with the Angels' vile evening chorus. Cas, who had rescued Dean for this, knowing that the act would bring him closer to that horrendous fate. Cas, who had had no companionship but Dean for two hundred years on that godforsaken Road. Cas, who knew that he too was Godforsaken.

"Dean? Dean, are you up here?"

Jo knocked on the door tentatively, and Dean started, stepping forward quickly and wrenching it open. She blushed when he opened it, and looked away pointedly. Dean waited a few awkward moments before cottoning on. "Oh! No… I don't have anyone in here with me, Jo."

She looked into the empty room and grinned. "Thought it would have been quick work, even for you."

Dean forced a smile, although it felt more like baring his teeth, and punched her lightly on the arm. She pinched him back. Then they said nothing, and her face fell.

"You alright up here?"

Dean paused thoughtfully before he answered. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just… loud." He gestured feebly to his ears and grimaced.

Her mouth twitched: "guess you're not used to it anymore, huh?"

He smiled back at her. "Guess not. Come in."

She shuffled in quietly and seated herself on the bed at the centre of the room, patting the spot beside her. Dean chuckled at the sight – only with Jo could he be certain she meant nothing by it, and she blushed at the chuckle at his implication made, looking away to compose herself before she bit back with a typically snappy retort:

"Get your mind out of the pigs' slough, Winchester."

"Sorry Jo, I forget myself in front of a proper lady."

She swatted at him as he seated himself next to her, but her smile was friendly enough as she leaned forward to make herself comfortable, hunched over - thoroughly unladylike - and inclined her head towards him.

"Don't you dare again."

They grinned at each other for a few moments, before Dean dropped his gaze, aware that staring into the eyes of his newly-betrothed, childhood friend, while they were seated on a bed together might be a behavior he would have to avoid in future. He instead turned to look at her hands, which she fiddled with in her lap, scratching at the cuticles, in a somewhat uncharacteristically nervous manner.

Her eventual question made clear why:

"Are you alright, Dean?"

Dean bit his lip, but said nothing, instead favoring his hands and rubbing the calluses there, that had softened significantly over Winter. He felt himself blink a few times, although he was unsure of the reason why, other than to fill the silence that fell when he didn't answer.

"I know that… well, I don't know really, but… the Road is…"

Dean didn't speak.

"Being out there, it must have been-"

Dean cut across her: "I'm used to it, Jo. I was fine. And I'm back now."

She grimaced and moved her hand to pull a few strands of her light blonde hair behind her ear. She took a deep breath before she answered.

"It's just… if you wanted… to talk, about what it was like out there-"

"You wouldn't understand."

She ignored the terse tone and laid her hand on his leg. "I know I wouldn't. But Garth, he would. And Sam, he would try. Balthazar-"

"Honestly, Jo. It's fine. I'm fine. It's over now. And I'm back."

She pursed her lips and wound her hands together at her stomach.

"You know Dean, we didn't forget you while you were away."

Dean looked up sharply, and she met his eyes brazenly, knowing him for long enough to know she'd struck a nerve.

"No, I know-"

"No, I don't think you do."

He closed his mouth, knowing that now Jo had breached the topic, she wouldn't let it drop until she had said what she had to say. Good luck to Garth in dealing with that aspect of her personality.

"I know, coming back, it seems like everyone moved on. With Garth and I, and…"

She let Sam and Ruby's situation hand in the air, polite enough not to vocalize what was a privat matter, although she obviously knew.

"Yeah, well…" he raised his eyes to meet hers to meet hers.

"Don't even try Dean. We were all wrecked. All of us. You know Garth didn't just ride back here and get on bended knee. He came here straight after he arrived at the Gates, before he saw the Empress even, and he cried for three straight days. He wouldn't eat or sleep or talk or anything. Even to me. And Sam… Dean, Ruby was all he had to hang onto. He thought you were dead. We were sure of it. You know they sent soldiers to look for you and clear the bodies? They wanted to bring you home. When they couldn't find you, Balthazar stayed out for days looking. He had to come home and tell your brother that you'd been… _eaten _by one of those things. Sam hit him."

Dean grunted and looked down at his hands. He was ashamed, and he knew Jo was right, and the image of what had transpired made bile rise in his throat. The acidic taste was accentuated by the realization of the cruelty with which he had imagined that Sam had not mourned him at all – denying what his brother must have suffered In hiding from the party and dismissing Sam, he was being despicable. He himself had spent months living leisurely in Castiel's cottage, and while he'd occasionally addressed the question, hadn't properly thought of the words that might have been used, how Sam would have fallen to the ground crying, and what it would have meant to wake up every morning and see his empty room and imagine the vile circumstance of his death – far from home, torn to pieces, crying for his mother as he had every night of his childhood.

"You were an ass to him before you came here weren't you?"

Goddamnit, Jo knew him to well. She'd known she would have to scold him before she'd even entered the room.

She reached for his arm, but didn't bat him, like she usually would when she was reprimanding his childish ways. Instead she gave it a light squeeze. "You should go to him. I'll make excuses for you here. Don't force him to suffer more Dean."

Dean nodded slowly, and lifted his gaze to meet hers, biting his lip.

"Don't let the Road drive you crazy, Dean. We'll all be here when it's done."

She reached out and clutched his hands lightly within both her own – they were far smaller in comparison, but just as calloused as Dean's from the years they had spent training together as children.

Dean nodded curtly and left her abruptly, sliding out the back entrance to the inn and back to his cottage. When Dean arrived home, Sam was at his desk, and when he looked up, his face was a little tear-stained, and strained with the effort of reading by candlelight.

Dean let the door close silently behind him, and he held his brother's gaze for a moment, before surging forward and capturing his brother in a tight embrace. "I'm sorry, Sammy."


End file.
